I’m sorry that I don’t smile at home anymore, I’m sorry that I’m not my usual bubbly self. I’m sorry for being such a downer, always sitting on my bed doing god knows what. I’m sorry for not spending much time with you, for not confiding in you the way I used to.

It’s not all your fault, really. I miss being the person I was, the happy-go-lucky fool, the dreamer, the crazy monkey.

I’m sorry that the only thing we ever do anymore is fight, but I’m tired of being babied all the time. I’m not always going to be a child. I’m not your doll. You can’t deck me up in ribbons and wrap me up with a bow and expect me to be happy. I think I know what I want to wear, I think I know how much I should eat so I don’t faint in class, please. I’ve been dancing for eleven years, I know what’s comfortable to dance in and what’s going to hurt my legs. 

You’ve never been through half the stuff I have, you were born a model. Guys fell at your feet and you kicked them away, don’t teach me about heartbreak, don’t teach me how to fall in love with my body. 

Please stop yelling all the time. I’m sorry I’m not perfect, but I’m all you’ll get. And if things stay the way they are right now, I doubt you’ll have me very long either. 


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