You always believed them first—
their words were gospel,
mine were noise.
You looked at me like I was the problem,
even when I was the one bleeding.
You said you knew me best,
but you never saw me.
You only saw what made you look good.
Every time I needed you,
you sided with the world.
Their lies—
you cradled them
like truths.
My truths—
you threw them back
like stones.
You called it “teaching me a lesson,”
but all I learned
was that I could never win.
That even if I screamed,
you’d still choose silence.
Do you know how it feels
to beg your own mother to believe you?
To realize she won’t—
not because she can’t,
but because she doesn’t want to.
You broke something in me
that still tries to heal.
And I hate that part of me
still hopes
you’ll finally take my side.