The daughter you think I am.

Dear Father,

I wish you knew how it is,
to be pressured to the ground.
Hating everyone, for anything they do,
Yet never making a sound.

Keeping it all in,
even when you want to scream.
Listening to everything you have to say,
is harder than it may seem.

Sucking it up,
when you tell me I'm a disgrace,
makes me want to leave,
and never come back to this horrid place.

Hearing you yell,
as loud as you can.
Realizing I'm not the daughter,
that you think I am.

How would it be,
if I pushed you away?
And told you that I hate you,
every single day?

Love,
Morgan