The Wound. The Scar.

There are times when I'm in the middle of a happy place and suddenly, my heart just starts sinking beneath my chest. Lower, lower and lower till I swear I can feel it at the the very soles of my feet.

I don't know if I'm asking for too much. I grew up living my life with my grandmother, with my aunts, and there are more than enough times when I feel, when I know, when I can tell myself for sure that I can't ask for anything more than that, and that doubtlessly, this is the only life for me.

There are those few rare moments though when my mind wanders in the middle of the night, or at daytime when I spot a couple leading their kid by the hand, when I feel like asking myself, what if?

What if my mother wanted me, just for once? Not to be cruel, there are times when she does like me. I'll even go as far as saying there are times when it seems like she loves me. But then again, do we expect a balloon to hold the air inside forever when we blow it up? No, we don't. We know that at some point, it will have to fly away, or just inflate itself or something out of the blue the next day. It doesn't stay still for anyone, and that's what my mother's feelings for me are like.

Sometimes, it feels as though she regrets ever having me for a daughter. It's one of the toughest feelings in the world, longing for someone's acceptance and feeling like no matter what you do or say, nothing will ever be good enough. You will never be good enough. You start wondering if things would be a lot better if you'd done differently. If you'd listened to her when she asked you to buy a garlic clove when you were five, and not come back with a jar of vinegar instead. You start asking if she'd love you if only you stopped wrapping yourself up in that stupid yellow and purple polka dot blanket, pretending you were a beauty queen, when she asked you to. Maybe you shouldn't have asked that they exchange you and your sister's names, even tough it was impossible, just because you thought hers sounded better. Maybe you should have been more like your sister. If you were, would she like you then?

Too many questions, and all they do is add to the pain. All I can do is cry myself to sleep most nights, a girl of 20, endlessly asking why.