Broken Home

(Sorry couldn’t find a lyric video, so I guess I’ll post lyrics later)

 

“Oh my God why are so ignorant?!” her father shouted.

“I’m ignorant?! What about when you’re alone with her doing Hell knows what?!”

She sat in her room, listening to the constant arguing from the second story. She knew her mother meant her, a teenage girl who only ever saw her father as that. Her dad. No one knew exactly what she felt, or how many time she contemplated returning to a time where the scars were invisible.

“There’s nothing going on and you know it! You’re so jealous!”

She took it upon herself to listen to music, because the more she thought of the fighting, the more she thought of the possibility of her father leaving, with four of her siblings, whom she loved very much. The lyrics only made her remember the clear words her mother told her on a camping trip.

“You’re a terrible kid.”

She fought the storm in her eyes, dying to escape. She thrust the headphones away, and curled into a ball. She lost control and the rage her eyes kept inside flooded out, a stream of broken dreams falling to the parched ground.

“I can’t believe that you have the audacity to say that!”

She wondered if her parents knew how she felt, how everyone is affected by the quarreling. She never spoke of her emotions, because one word will lead to a million, and no one wants to hear a rumble of words that lead nowhere. She wouldn’t bother saying that her past still haunts her, that a series of mistakes, which she very clearly learned from, is the reason she is not allowed to be in public schooling. Her hand has a constant reminder of where she went and how her “friends” reacted to such. She knew that nothing or no one wanted to hear of the contents of her mind, how she hides behind comedy and music to soothe her screaming soul.

She lingered on a memory of smiles, when she had someone to talk to, where she had a life to call her own, and not just a routine to follow. Where her life meant something, whatever little it meant.

The life she will never return to.

Who really cares about her feelings, right?

“Really? You suggest such outrageous things that I can’t even talk to her without wondering whether or not you’re going to get mad and leaving.”

The only person that remotely understood where she was inside was her father, who couldn’t talk to her without upsetting her mother. She felt like she had a friend when she was with her father, so she tended to talk to him as much as possible.

Which was almost non-existent now.

She wondered how much more of this she could take. The pain that stabbed her constantly, the confidence she lost oh so long ago. The scars as a result, trying to understand her emotional hurt, the words she spoke and were spoken to her.

How much more could she take?

How much more can I take?

(wow, that ended up being 99.9999999% true. Sorry for bumming you out.)

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