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Sometimes I feel like I'm just a piano-playing shell to my mother. Sometimes I feel like I'm being suffocated under pressure. And other times, I'm holding strong.

I wish I could tell her how I feel. How I wish that she would tell me to write a story for her instead of practising piano. How I wish she would be proud of the fact that I want to be a writer. How I wish she could understand the insecurities I feel when I cannot run as fast as the average Grade 9. How I wish that she could accept me as I am. How I wish I was brave enough to say this all to her.

Almost everyday I wonder when I'll crack in front of my friends. Always, I have been able to hold it in until I was alone. But everyday my barrier gets weaker and my smile more fake. My poetry darker, and my writing sadder. I wonder if I'll have the strength to stay happy all my life. Probably not.

People are imperfect. We were made this way, but sometimes I wish I were perfect. Prettier. Smarter. Sportier. Skinnier. Happier.

It's hard for me, but when I think of all the other children in the world with less privileges than I have, I start to feel ashamed of myself. That is the reason why I keep myself quiet. My sadness is nothing major compared to those without parents at all...but sometimes I wonder if I would be happier as an orphan. If life is meant to be hard, scary, and completely tiring, I wonder why it exists at all.

I do not want my friends to pity me, just as I do not wish for my parents to go back together. If a couple falls out of love, it is unlikely they'll fall back in. And I don't want to force them. Pain occurs to everyone and that is why I wish I wasn't so weak. Something so minor should not make me tremble. Something so minor should not make me cry. Something so minor is not something I should even be depressed about. But I am. That's the hardest thing for me to understand. Why? Why do I fall into despair over such a minor matter? I have found only one explanation. I am a human. Humans can be weak. I wish I couldn't.

Everyone knows that I love stuff animals. Though I'm sure no one knows why. Although they're cute, soft, and cuddly, I wouldn't mark that down as my main reason why I love them. I love them because they provide comfort to me when I need to cry. So when I'm depressed, giving me a stuffed animal does not help me cheer up. It only makes me want to cry.