Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

Copied from my old deviant art account. I'm deleting it from there.


Dear World.

Am I really such a bad person?
Just because I tell people what I really think?
Because I refuse to lie to their faces, just for the sake of keeping up appearances?

Am I a bad person, because of what I told her?
What I told her each and every night, when she left me with the baby to go out?
When she came back, with alcohol on her breath, and the smell of cigarettes on her skin?
Was it really so bad that I told her I didn't think it was right?

Am I a bad person, because of what I did?
When I hid the medicine from her, so she wouldn't drug her daughter?
When I lied to her face, and said I didn't know where it was?
Did she not see the warning label that clearly said overdosing could lead to liver failure?

Am I a bad person, because I called her back home?
When I told her that her daughter was sick, and had nearly drowned in her own vomit?
When she was crying for her mother, who it seemed so often as of late, wasn't there?
When I yelled at her for complaining to me about not having a life?

I guess that beautiful little baby is not enough of a life, with her bright storm-cloud eyes.

Dear World.

She is not a bad person.
She had a rough childhood, with our absent father figure, and mother who had never grown up.
She had to take care of me, the way I am now beginning to take care of her daughter.

She thinks I am a bad person, because of what I tell her.
She says she is entitled to the life she didn't get to have at my age.
She says that she has tried to kick the habit, and it just isn't working.
She says she needs to get away before she screams.

She knows what I did, and thinks it was bad.
She knows I have hidden the medicine from her, and is angry.
She can't get me to tell her, and she can't find it anywhere.
She makes excuses about the side effects, just like anything and everything else.

She hates it when I call her back home.
She says she didn't know her daughter was sick, or vomiting.
She says she was only crying cause her stomach hurt, and not her heart.
She looks at me with tears in her eyes, and tells me I'm horrible, to shut up, to go away.

I shrug and comply, knowing she'll cry, and yet unable to bring myself to care.

Dear World.

After all, who am I but a lowly bug on the ground?
Waiting to be squished beneath someone's shoe.
Because I refuse to move out of the way.
Because I refuse to crawl away, and let the shoe hit the pavement.

A lowly bug, crawling and disgusting.
A caterpillar that refuses to hide itself in a chrysalis, and become a butterfly.
A worm with many legs, though only one honest face.
Lying on my stomach, on the hot pavement, inching along.

Yes, just a lowly bug, with a few friends, that also chose to be caterpillars.
Together, we watch the butterflies soar by, each one more made up the next.
They lie with their bright patterns, their colorful wings.
We are honest and ugly, scraping our bellies along the ground.

Dear World.

Am I a bad person?