My grandmother always told me

I’d grown up so much, yet I knew a secret.

I was never old enough to be included,

No matter what, talking was all I’d get.

I was grown and started wearing makeup.

My grandmother told me I was pretty.

I looked myself in the mirror,

and couldn’t help but cry tears of pity.

I was just the girl of SAD / ADHD,

the one everyone would hate.

There’s no point in consoling me,

as that’s already been used to bait.

My grandmother always told me

I was gorgeous, just like my mother.

But, you see, I only look like her,

same nose and even same hair color.

I was gorgeous on the _outside_,

but even that wasn’t true.

That’s what I’ve been saying,

as my brain drowned in blue.

My mirror image believed in makeup,

and eventually real me did too.

I’d practice it over and over again

until it finally looked like I grew.

My grandmother never knew what was behind

her words of encouragement, the taunt.

She never knew I’m an expert of reading things

But those words would forever begin to haunt.

Dear grandmother,

the one who made me

believe makeup was the only way,

I grew up with brothers who

always were the cray,

my makeup now means more

than the phone in my hand.

Or the food on my plate.

Or even the clothes on my body.

You didn’t mean to break me,

but it happened anyway.

And it happened so terribly,

I wished _I_ could walk away.