That's Okay by The Hush Sound
You were a child who was made of glass.
As a baby, I had always had this disease, for as long as I can remember. My arms and legs were too short and curled and looped as if made of thin wire that a child had played with. My dull gray eyes were born clouded with pain and my lips firmly sewed shut. It's not like I could speak anyways. My vocal cords as mangled as my arms.
You carried a black heart passed down from your dad.
My mom was extremely encouraging. My dad was much less enthusiastic to have as monster as a daughter. He and my mother would argue loudly as if just because they couldn't hear me, I couldn't hear them. They weren't even arguing over whether I was worth it or not. They were arguing over whose fault it was. Who is to blame for the fact that I'm seventeen and I can't even speak for myself?
If somebody loved you, they'd tell you by now.
No one is my 'home' ever says 'I love you.' or makes me feel special or even wanted. They say that I'm a nuisance and I wish that I could fire back that it's their fault. It's not like I have any friends in the Special Ed. classroom where I'm taught, and I don't even have friends outside of it, either. Let alone a boyfriend or girlfriend.
We all turn away when you're down.
If I could talk, I would be diagnosed with depression. If I could move on my own, I'd kill myself, but I can't. I can't do anything about anything. The world keeps on turning. Tragedies keep on happening. I keep being ignored. I'm observant because of my condition. I can tell you entire backstories and I have an incredible memory for events. Not the little things.
You want to go back to where you felt safe.
If I could, i would ask to be reborn all over again with a different set of parents. A different life. My mother wouldn't have been considering abortion and wouldn't have been guzzling beer and snorting drugs while she was pregnant with me. My father wouldn't have that awful disapproving look on his face every time he looks at me.
To hear your brother's laughter, see your mother's face.
Maybe I could have been born to a wealthy family or a family that lives with just what they need. Instead of the dirt poor, druggie family I live with now. Maybe I could have had a twin brother who looked exactly like me. Maybe I would have had my mother's eyes and hair.
Your childhood home is just powder-white bones.
Now, that dream was just shattered into tiny, broken pieces, like a vase that someone knocked off of a shelf, as my mother screamed and hollered at my father. Those pieces just crumpled into dust when my father came stomping into my room and slamming the door.
And you'll never find your way back.
Then, he, with his weathered but soft hands, touched me. He wrapped his arms around me and did as he pleased. I couldn't even fight back or scream. I heard my mother slam the front door and assumed she left. My 'father' twisted this way and that to please himself.
And when you're gone, will they say your name?
Once he left, I pondered my life and my existence and the world. Is any one eye any certain color? Who are my parents, really? Is God real? If so, why does he hate me? Why am I the one who is born defective and not one of my bullies? What do I do now? What did I do? That question bounced around my head for a while.
And when you're gone, will they love you the same?
Could I gather enough strength to drag myself into my mother's room to steal her pills? My immune system is already weak enough. It would only take a few. I might even have enough strength to drag myself over to the window sill to watch the sunset.
