Silver spoon

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 

disposable.

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. 
The transparency.
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.

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