you ask why i'm not happy, but i just smile and say "what do you mean?" because, mom, I don't have the heart to say that it's all because of you.
you ask what i'm interested in, but i know that if I'm honest you'll only judge and put me down when they're the only things that bring me joy.
i'm calling, screaming and wishing for you to understand that when you say "it's not important" my insides twist because the things you think are unimportant are the things keeping me sane. keeping me happy to wake up every day.
but i know you.
i know what you'd say.
"you shouldn't rely on merely a hobby to bring you inner peace and happiness"
mom, what you think is for the best is only making things worse.
if you shout at me, i'll cry despite the harshness intended.
if you dismiss my ideas like they're nothing, i'll shrink, scared to ask you anything no matter how small.
please; please just understand that i am weak.
i'm weak. so weak.
the material things are important.
i am so fucking weak.
YOU ARE READING
you killed my flower
شِعرi hate the way your eyes can manipulate me. poems about his eyes and other things.
