But I know

I never met you.

I don’t know you,

but it still hurts.

They say it was her fault.

She says you were sick, 

that you had been for a long time.

Fourteen years, nine months. 

Roughly.

I am fourteen years old now.

You gave up with in the week of knowing my existence.

When I talk to her,

the crack in her voice,

the look in her eyes.

She can say its going great, but I know.

Its killing her.

She was blamed.

But I know.

It is my fault.

Its not my fault,

but it is because of me.

My sister blames me.

I want to tell the truth,

but I cant.

I say everything is great, 

so she can deal with her own pain,

instead of putting it to the side to comfort me.

Fourteen years later,

I cry myself to sleep,

I lie,

I am insecure.

When I look in the mirror,

I don’t know the person staring back.

Or like them,

and I know that he wouldn’t be proud of me.

He would give up a million times over knowing that he has me for a daughter.

I love her, she is my mum after all.

She says i have the drive, I get it from my dad.

But mine is bigger.

In the same way it is smaller,

I can't fail her now, she would never understand why.

But I just feel the need to give in.

I love her.

If she loves me, she will understand why.