You. With your judging eyes, seeking every flaw. You bend and yank my hair. You don't appriciate how hard I worked to get my body lean and strong.  You watch over my fork as if it were the devil's pitchfork. You are with me when I run; I'm never fast enough, strong enough, good enough. You hate the way my voice wavers when I sing, and the twang of an off guitar chord when I just want to sink into my own world alone. You hate my temper, and you say I am too giving, too weak. You poke and prod at clothes, formulating a judgement the same way you do my academic grades. My room isn't as clean as you want it to be, my handwriting not as neat. I can't dance the way you wish I could, and 

The End

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