It's not like I want to be monitored. I mean, who does? I can't talk like I want to, I can't walk like I want to. They monitor how I talk, what I talk, what I eat, who I hang out with, and I obviously lie to them. I've been telling so many damned lies I'm going to go to hell for this. I'm already in hell, anyway. I don't see the difference.
Whatever. Call me ignorant. Call me fucking stubborn. I don't give a flying fuck. This is who I am, and who I want to be. You can't make me change myself to suit you. I will not. I will never do that. Ever.
I hate this black and white environment. I want colour. I want change. I want something more than being a keyboard warrior and sitting behind a fucking computer screen typing and venting my anger in an online diary nobody will ever read. I want something more than those eagle eyes, staring into my back. You may not think that I know, but I catch it. When I look up, you're looking at me. When I look up, you advert your gaze and shift your eyes off to the side. What in fucking hell is wrong with me? Am I not deserving of my own privacy? Why can't I do the things that I want to do, ever? Why do I have to account for my actions to you? You don't govern my life. You don't even own my life.
By naming something, you own it, that's what I read somewhere. So if you named me, you own me. I hate that mindset now. I hate it. I truly hate it. Just leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to cry anymore. Sometimes I wish I wasn't born with tear ducts, because the tears burn my face, as if they were acid. As if my face was so volatile it reacted with water to kill me from within. I hate those salty droplets of water that sprout from my eyes.
Your smiles are so fake. When you say you love me in the sweetest voice, I feel like throwing up. I rather you come straight out and tell me that you hate me, that I was adopted. That I will never amount to anything, because when I do, I can laugh at your predictions instead of having to put up with more and more of your "I knew that my beautiful daughter will amount to someone who will change the world". I want to change the world, but not in the way that you want me to. I don't want to do medicine anymore. I want to change the world, heart by heart, note by note, because that is my passion. That is what I want to do. That's what makes me and my dreams truly, truly beautiful. Maybe tragically, but truly beautiful.
And speaking of beautiful, your definition of beautiful is definitely different from mine. You only care about outward beauty, how short my shorts are, how much of my ass is exposed when I go running, whether I have a 2 inch diameter waistline or not. Shut. The. Hell. Up. I don't care whether I'm 'fat' or not. As long as I'm happy with what I look like, shut up. I'm beautiful on the inside, and gradually, I know, I will be beautiful on the outside. What you want me to look like is not beautiful. You want me to look hot. Fine. Fine. Fine. I'll look hot. If I come home saying I've been raped it's your fucking fault.
Since when did I name you my keepers? I am a dove, I have no keeper. Yet, I have been captured, stuck in a cage that is overused and undercleaned, undermaintained, not able to even stretch my wings. You want to see me fly, but how can I fly if you don't let me go?
You're trying to pave the way for me, I know. You want me to get into medicine. You want me to follow the footsteps of my father, to become a world reknowned doctor, travelling the world with the press or sitting in an office, rotting away with those overused medical terms. You want me to BE my father.
And it's not 'dad', or 'mom', anymore. It's 'father' and 'mother'. 'Dad' and 'mom' have emotions attached to them. You are just taking on this responsibility because I am an accident. You just had my younger brother after me to make it seem planned. Crafty, but I cracked you. I cracked your secret, and you don't like it. You don't like the fact that I'm telling the truth, that I really just was an accident. You are just my biological parents, nothing more. You don't even care about me. I could drag myself home with a broken leg for all you care, you wouldn't even notice.
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