She is an outcast. She finds it easier to express what she feels in the form of writing. Whether it is poems, letters or long texts. These are poems that she writes trying to describe how it feels to live with certain mental health issues, in a worl...
I have a loving sister, a caring mother, and a protective father. They love me, or so they say. Because I don't feel the love that they claim to be giving me, perhaps because they don't love me in a way that I understand. Of course, they love me in all the ways that they are aware of. But maybe that love is not meant for me. They are definitely more than adequate, just not for me. Perhaps I am the one who is inadequate for them.
I have friends, or so they say. But when I need them, they all are busy. "Hey, I am just checking up on you." I send them a text, when all I really want, is to receive that text from someone. "Thank you," they say. But they don't ask me how I am doing. Some of them listen, "I'll get back to you," they tell. "Sure, take your time." I say. But then they never answered back. I don't need their theories, or suggestions, or advices, I don't want those, "Oh other's have it worse; you should be more grateful; I feel the same, etcetera etcetera." I just need them to listen to me the way I listen to them. Let me have the mic for once, please.
Please, just listen.
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