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milayah.
Hating myself.
That was one thing I was very good at.
Behind the cocky front, resting bitch face and snappy attitude, there was still a fragile 12 year old girl watching her whole family fall apart, and wondering why no matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to fix it.
Wondering why whenever she expressed her discomfort in a situation, she was making it all about herself.
Wondering why her dad would never love her as much as he loved her sister.
Wondering and wondering and wondering.
Wondering does you no good.
That's what life has taught me.
Being a thinker in a world full of reactors would only leave you and bruised and behind.
You have to take things into your hands.
You have to stop letting people's words get to you, stop letting them make you feel small, stop letting them make you cry.
Feel.
Up until now, I'd been good at it.
I hadn't cried in front of anyone since I was 13.
No one's words had ever stung me so far deep into my very soul, into my very being enough to make me cry.
Something I'd locked away in the back of my heart- the ultimate last resort.
Until he did.
He shook me.
I wasn't 20 year old Milayah then, no.
I was 12 year old Lay, sobbing, screaming, pleading my father to want me.
To love me.
I was back inside our living room, watching him tear me apart with a single glance through teary eyes when all I had ever wanted was to be seen him.
That's all I want, to this day.
I want to be able to walk by the park and see little girls playing with their dads and not feel a pang in my chest.
And wonder.
I want to see him and not feel like I was looking at a stranger. But at my own father.
But life seems to think it's funny to deny me of the one thing I ever really wanted.
As I bite back a sob, I walk into the walk in closet and change it into shorts and a t-shirt (which actually belonged to Naila), wanting to feel al least some type of comfort.
