ungrateful

they said the youngest has it easy. they said we’re lucky — wrapped in love, in care, in attention, in all the things they thought we had. they said we’re spoiled. but none of it was true. it’s an illusion — a picture they painted in their minds. and i wish it were real. i wish we were spoiled. but we’re not. instead of love, we were given pressure — as if we were machines programmed to move exactly how they want us to. as if the weight of the world doesn’t touch us, as if we’re not allowed to feel, to fall, to make mistakes — because we’re the youngest. we’re told to learn from others’ mistakes, to always do better, to never fail. but how will i learn if i’m never allowed to stumble, even just once? we’re not ungrateful. we’re not complaining. we’re just tired — tired of being hurt for the same reason again and again. tired of pretending we’re fine, that we can handle it all, that we don’t need anything. what they don’t see is this — we, the youngest, are often the ones who feel the smallest. we borrow pieces of what’s left behind, and call it ours. we live in the shadows of what came before. no, we’re not ungrateful — we just don’t settle for scraps when we know we’re meant for more.