Growing up I was privileged.I had a silver spoon in my mouth.
But I wasn’t given a fork.
Heartbroken since birth,
I learned at an early age I was
But boy the silver spoon life was one
to brag about.
Expensive taste but poverty-stricken heart.
No one knew the battle I faced coming to a house that wasn’t a home.
No one there to help you with your homework,
Help you scare off the ghosts in your closet,
No one there to help you feel love like a real mother shows her kids.
Everything felt conditional because I knew there would be that infallible moment the fictional love given to me would expire.
The ruins of a childhood trying to find who would love you are from broken relationships I carry in my spirit.
Lying became my recourse
so I can sit in imaginary tree houses and tell imaginary stories to imaginary people of once upon a time tales when I was a princess and her mommy and daddy gave her a thousand kisses each night.
Too bad reality always reminds us talking to yourself is a form of crazy.
So where would we find our therapy?
Because I’m sure a pill couldn’t make up for the fact of not being loved enough still means loving yourself when you live in a society that forces you to do something you don’t wanna do because you are suppose to love yourself when in fact loving yourself means you actually do.
Somewhere there’s a clue.
Not too sure if it lies in man though.
Crush after crush a crushing blow reminds me I’m different.
The difference is that I will always be me vs the world.
Praying each day I don’t take my own self out.