Mother’s Favorite

They call me the favorite, the perfect child;
Their words biting at my fragile skin
Until it bleeds and the tears finally fall.
Both older and younger got along
Like two foul-mouthed, mean peas in a pod,
Filling their existence with drugs and hatred,
disobedience and reckless behavior.
I was nothing like them, often secluded
While they criticized me for my quiet nature.
They are just like our mother; I am not.

But they dare spit those words at me
And they feel like acid on my skin.
I don’t know what it’s like to be the favorite.
My sisters, despite their constant rage
Or the uneasy atmosphere they created,
Always got what the wanted.
Last minute sleepovers, rides into town,
New clothes, a cell phone before I did.
Attention: whether it was good or bad.
Things had to go their way, just like our mom.
But, yet, I’m the favorite because I kept quiet.
I’m the favorite because I wasn’t punished
But I hardly did any wrong with punishing.

My mother often met me with jealously,
Upset that I had reached her milestones:
Publishing a piece of writing in print,
Planning an abroad trip for school,
Picking up an instrument for marching band.
Jealous that I was able to do these things
When she couldn’t because she had us.
I felt pressured to keep good grades
And keep my mouth shut no matter the pain,
No matter how much my life was in ruin.
I had to maintain this image and the life
Of who she wanted to be if it wasn’t for us.
I was a doormat that she walked all over.
My plans were always shot down
Whether they were planned ahead or not.
Mother was too busy for me
When she had her hands full with the others.

I was the forgotten one: my mother’s favorite.