I was once a daughter
they never had to worry about—
books in my hands,
dreams tucked behind neatly lined lashes,
grades shining like stars
on the fridge of their pride.
I wore makeup not to hide,
but to bloom—
just a girl
trying to feel a little prettier
in a world that told her to be perfect.
I was the smile that softened rooms,
the laugh that stitched families together.
A child so easy,
they forgot how hard life can be.
A daughter who raised their expectations
higher than the sky could hold.
But something happened. Then all at once.
Like sunlight slipping through the seams
of a storm not yet seen—
I was no longer
that perfect daughter.
Now, they speak in whispers,
like my name’s a bruise
they’re afraid to touch.
Their conversations
drip like mud through the cracks—
cold, heavy,
full of unspoken “what happened to her?”
They enter my room
as if I’m a painting gone wrong,
their masterpiece
tainted by a single streak of failure.
They repaint me with sighs,
label me with worry—
as if I’m a plastic bag tossed in wind,
no longer holding value.
No longer their perfect daughter.
Now I’m skin and silence, blood drained of brilliance.
I sit with textbooks
that blur beneath tired eyes,
watching grades tumble like leaves in winter,
trying to cover myself
in layers of fake smiles,
so no one sees the wreckage underneath.
I scroll.
And scroll.
And scroll—
as if time, if moved fast enough,
might reverse,
might forgive.
I stay up late
just to stare at the ceiling,
wishing for a version of me
that they used to love.
The perfect daughter.
The girl I lost.
My eyes burn with battles
they’ll never fight with me.
Tears collect like soldiers on the frontlines of my loneliness.
I lie there,
still—
hoping stillness will stop the suffocation
squeezing the breath from my soul.
So I text friends.
Too often.
Too much.
Trying to send my craving
for connection
through invisible wires—
hoping their joy
can touch my emptiness.
So I can glow again.
So I can feel
worthy again.
But the pain of being unseen
weighs heavier than silence.
It drowns me in guilt—
not just for failing,
but for daring to try
and still fall short
of that perfect daughter they once believed in.
This ship I sail
holds no map,
no shore in sight.
I drift—
my sails torn,
waiting for a gust of love
to push me toward healing.
Clouds gather,
heavy with ache,
ready to rain.
But maybe,
just maybe—
they’ll rain warmth.
Rain softness.
Rain the affection I ache for.
So I can bloom again.
So I can be
more than their disappointment.
I ask myself:
Was it worth it— this attempt to be more?
Or did I just
get lost
in the trance of trying?
I built destinations
in my head,
but the world outside
gave me detours.
Still—
every misstep I took
was lined with hope.
Not every tear
these coal-black eyes shed
was a lie.
