Look at me.
Let yourself be honest about what you are presented with.
I have never been a Princess,
never tainted and torn apart by a destiny,
never really on the road to anywhere special,
just dropped into a dull commuter town, sprinkled with a little exotic culture and left to get on with it.
Nobody who isn’t obliged with blood ties will ever love you.
I’m sure my mother was pleased that the inconvenience of pregnancy was over,
but no matter how many times she tells me,
I have a hard time believing that she was pleased with the result of several months of hell.
Still, if she wasn’t, she has been nice enough to pretend otherwise for thirty years.
We all know how my father felt,
the poor man,
tormented and torn to pieces by the demons that delved deep within him long before I was born,
never really having a chance,
but being trailed along anyway, for the amusement of the universe.
He used to look at me like it hadn’t all been worth it, despite him doing none of the work,
and I’d just nod back, resigned and relishing the freedom of giving up entirely.
Not even those with blood ties will fulfil their obligations and love you.
Look at me.
I have been falling apart since the day I fell to the Earth,
cursed, in such a cruelly casual way,
nothing so terrible,
and I desperately want somebody to blame for the way it all suddenly hurts,
but nothing is possible,
nobody is culpable,
I just swallow a thesaurus and swallow the lump in my throat,
and I go back to brushing my hair in stunned silence.
Nobody did this to you. There is nobody to blame.