H.S.P

By Sanjana K

I am skin hanging loosely on bones. I am the brat that cries a river at every misfortune. I am tears that

lies in puddles around this home. I am the hypochondriac who reads too much into every small

symptom. I am only what my mother sees in me. I disappoint her every time a tear rolls down my

cheek.

My own mother hates me for who I am, but I cannot help it. Even after 21 years of living with this

body, I still cannot digest the fact that this is who I am. I am angry at myself for being myself. I am

angry at myself for not hiding this part of me well. I am angry at myself for not chiding people who

try to change what is me.

So, every time my mother sighs as I cry, I clench my fists until I bruise my palms. But I will not tell

her I hate her for not accepting me and my hypersensitivity. It hurts that she wants me to change

myself only because I love her. I love her, and she is a mother. And I simply cannot fathom how a

mother cannot empathise with her child.

By Sanjana K