A Tangle of Hurt and Happiness - A collection of poetry

Glass Child

I am a glass child in a house full of disabilities.
Everyone's dealing with something, and I sit here perfectly healthy.
Except I'm not either, you can see it on my face.
I never wear tight fitting shirts in case you see the ribs underneath.
I am a glass child, forced to raise myself.
I don't know how to ask for help, hell I don't know how to ask for anything at all.
My father is sick, nearing his end.
My mother is less a mother and more a friend.
My older sister is harmful, to herself and to others.
My older brother does his best not to hurt anyone else again.
My younger brother is sickly, born too weak with too many diseases.
How can I complain when I wasn't born with a hole in my heart or something wrong with my brain?
I am a glass child who became golden for some attention.
I wanted a bit of praise, and I wanted to lessen their burden.
Years later, when I began to faint, they realized that the glass child may very well break.
They looked at me in my entirety, saw the cuts and my anxiety.
Saw the way I struggled to eat and breathe.
I was a glass child, and sometimes I still feel like one.
I live in a house of disabilities, and I too am riddled with more than one.
I am sickly, I am dying, I am mentally unwell.
And still, even now, I cannot ask for help.