It hurts the most.
Umma....
Why must you say that to me?
So what if I'm fat?
Am I not your daughter anymore?
So what if I don't seem good enough?
Do you regret giving birth to me?
Why can't you praise me for what I did good, instead of judging me for what I lack in?
When I can play piano covers without looking at the scores, why can't you say that I'm talented?
When I got distinctions and A's for my exams, why can't you say I did much better than you expected?
Why must you only scold me for being fat and force me to slim down?
Why must you compare me with your friends' kids?
They are not your child, umma....
I am....
I'm your daughter, umma.
Can't you just try to accept me as who I am?
You said that if I remain fat, then I will never have a boyfriend.
But have you ever asked me if I needed one?
Do you know what I love most?
Do you know why I'm always hiding in my room, facing my laptop screen rather than your face?
Because of you, umma. My appearance would only make you angry.
You always judged me for my appearance. You said that others would judge me if I enter the society...
But do you know... you were the first one to judge me...
I don't dislike you, umma.
I love you for my entire life.
That's why it hurts the most.
Comments