There is a life I wanted for you, that I hoped to be a part of, and yet that is not the life in which I am aware. Selfishly I drown in answers that I don't have.
Those privileges belong to a household that I am not a part, whether by design or by choice, I cannot deny the ones I have made.
Could I have fought harder, been a little more defiant? What sacrifices should I have laid at the risk of being the torment I hoped not to be, becoming a stain on the walls you were forced to paint over, the results would have been the same, you would not see me, but you would know I am there.
There are stories I want to hear if you are willing to share but what right do I have to such memories, the ones having no need for me and a household well to have it such.
How much ugly would I have given in the fight to be a memento, something cherished, as I keep you, the memories growing further away? I will never know at what point they were deemed meaningless.
The only way to be spared is to not exist and that is what has become. I do not exist, not really, that is the life we truly know, making my wishes nonexistent.
How arrogant of me to think I could be something you don't already have.