When do I get to live?
I’ve done everything to make you happy. Everything to make sure you’ll never have to worry about me. Always ensuring that you’d be pleased with my choices and actions. Every decision I make or have made was in your favor.
Everything under your control. Your say.
So much so that when I have to make a personal choice over something so trivial, you are still on my mind probing me with thoughts about your potential questions and commentary. If you are not next to me verbalizing your opinions, you’re in my head, full control of all gears.
For every attempted selfish decision, I’m left guilty.
So when do I get to live?
Because none of this has made you confess that you’re happy and are proud of me.