y’know i really don’t know what to tell you
i know you hate me growing up. i know you’re pissed i’m not a kid. i can tell you had a kid bc buying a doll isn’t as accepted when you’re 30. plus, a doll doesn’t cling to you like you wished i had when you sent me off to preschool or whatever bullshit you spin to my family and friends when you overthink about me enjoying college and you want to depress yourself.
i can tell you had a kid bc you wanted to relive whatever life you saw pass you by when you made all those decisions in high school. to be that popular girl again through me, pretty and perfect and popular. you set that on my shoulders bc i’m more neurotypical than the kid you had before me.
i can tell you were pissed when i didn’t want to wear make up. when i wasn’t really into skirts and dresses, thank. when i didn’t want to straighten my hair like you wanted me to (and how annoyed you were when you finally beat me down enough to feel i needed to straighten my hair to look presentable, but you had to do it for me bc i didn’t know how) when homecoming and prom came around and buying pretty, sparkly dresses was like a chore for me and like some kind of heaven for you. when I gravitated towards the old fashioned ones, the ones you said looked more like “the mother of the bride”. when i said i couldn’t wait to be the mother of the bride, then.
i can tell you had a kid but you wanted play dough instead. something malleable and lenient. something that didn’t talk back as much. something that would follow your lead. would paint their nails and their eyes and their lips like you did when you were my age. someone who all the boys wanted and craved, someone who would smile and squeal with you about boys so you could relive dating. so you could see me and daydream about who you could have married if you didn’t marry my father.
i can tell you wish i was still a kid. that i was still fun or… whatever.
but i can tell you something for sure… crying isn’t going to make anything more fun. think about that as you lay there with tears in your eyes, watching depressing movies and thinking about how you miss me being “fun”.
because what you’re really missing is missing out on the good person i’m becoming. what you’re really missing is missing the ability to take any positive credit for the good things about me.
i dunno… i kinda hope that sucks for you.