When I was little, I dreamt of being older. I always thought older meant better. Not of having things, but of doing things, of being a family. Laughing, going, doing, loving, and just being. As I got older, I dreamt of having someone love me. From the time I was about eleven, I never felt as if I was getting any love from my parents. I was just something or someone that they needed to run through a cycle. My parents were processing a child through the factory of life. Elementary school. Middle school. High school. College. Career. Get married. Have children. They were never concerned with what I wanted or how I felt. I have never been asked by my parents how I felt. I lay here alone, while they sleep, as proof that they have no concern for my feelings. I can’t help but wonder, when I am gone, and they’re without a daughter, if the skin color of my boyfriend will matter. I may have no after school activities. No friends can come over. I’m sorry, you have to be a doctor, and we do not want an attorney.
