My Dear

My dear, you asked me for an apology and I know this is not what you meant but i’m sorry my hands are always cold and I don’t answer your texts, my mom never taught me about me-time or self interest, but I learned I before E where I has to mean I and not We as in I am trying to get better. I used to draw in a journal as a kid and cover the bad bits with stickers until I ran out of stickers and wrote bad art is still art. It wasn't supposed to be artistic or mind-blowing I was only 11 and learning to love myself. You still give me your jacket and buy me flowers but only after I ask or before you tell me you liked my hair better long. I am sick of you attaching to your critiques ‘ take it with a grain of salt’ as if that makes it a compliment. My dear, I am sick of putting rhinestones over my illnesses, my blemishes no longer disappear under glitter, I have run out of stickers, I am giving you back your salt, My problems don't have to be our problems but they are still here