The Mistaken Child

The day I was born is bloody tragedy, wasn’t it, Mom?

Leukeumia wasn’t enough to test this little girl.

So, the father went away—brought all the lust he has to affairs with other women.

No guarantee of affection, either to be found.

If living in the hell was potrayed, then it would be my life.

Was my hair ever being ruffled by my own father’s hand?

Was my hand ever being held by my own father’s hand?

Was my body ever being carried by my own father?

Was I ever being told, “I love you, My Little Princess"?

Then, I have to live with triggering screams from you, Mom.

Screamed at me when I was really tired with my mind.

Screamed at me when I was doing my best.

Screamed at me when I wanted to do just die.

My home were you and Papa.

But, God—separate the universe.

My whole universe.

Was my baby shape didn’t make God gave mercy?

Was my tears didn’t make you and Papa aware of how suffered am I?

Was my act and words too young to be heard?

No one of you grows love.

Pure hatred to this little girl.

Caged me since first day.

Stabbed me everyday.

Not wanting to let me go—said I was too young for this wold.

But, wasn’t I too young for those pain?