Toys.

My tears hold no fear, no pain, no anxiety or distrain.

They're filled with anger and disgust after your touch on me stained.

Your actions bring bad luck, father, that I know.

Don't get mad, though, when you see me go.

You know what you have done.

My point is loud and clear.

'Cause this much anger can't be born from cuddles, sweets and toys.

My wrath is meaningless to you. You toy with it for fun.

But don't think that you're better 'cause you think you know too much.

I've seen your hands. I've felt their touch, their strength and all the splinters.

I've pulled them out one by one, with polka dotted tweezers.

Your hugs and your nostalgia don't mean anything to me.

You had your chance when I was born to treat me fairly.

Instead you chose to beat, use me and mistreat me.

You say it's my fault that I don't speak, don't eat, don't hug, don't play with all my toys.

But, really, did you ever think you're the cause of all this void?

No chewing, no "hello", no touch of me near you; no little me dressing up my barbies and my horses.

You did me wrong, I have to say.

But still, why can't you see it?

You're an insecure, narcissistic, pig who thinks he's mighty.

You role in mudd and beg for us to clean you 'cause we're "family"

But family is about love.

Which you never dared to show.

You mimiced your own father, tried making me your mother.

Your daughter, child, sibling of your daughters.

How many roles and images of me do you have?

I'm nor a puppet nor a barbie.

No image of your choice.

I'll never be who you want 'cause I get to have a choice.

I choose to hate you.