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Personal Note:
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Poem
(Note- Based on the story of a friend of mine)
There are TWO PARTS to this. The second one is here- https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_pen_lives_on_part_2_876105 . Since I can't enter the contest this was originally written for twice and character limits...ugh... Please read BOTH PARTS. Thanks!

She married him for his money.
He married her for her breast.
Both use each other as exhibition pieces.
But whenever I ask, it was
true love.
Sure, of course it was
true love,
because every night now, they fight,
insults, books, papers thrown about.
Leaving lets you avoid emotion.

Everything’s perfectly fine with me.
I have a loving, supporting family.
So what if most of the time they believe
I can’t do anything, or if their ‘love’
consists of strings of expletives
whacking my senses like snowballs,
cold, hard, stabbing? It’s still love.
They love me in a material way,
books lining the shelves.
Some books I’ve never read and never will.

Masks cover feelings.
If I feign a smile – or even if I don’t –
nobody asks what’s wrong. I’m just there,
like the dysfunctional coffee machine,
something everyone avoids inherently.
And I like the solitude – it gives me more time
to brood in thoughts, philosophies.
Depressive ones.
One of my favorites goes like this – 
Love is a bastard.

Not all was meant to be.
Like the fantasies of my father
doing something else besides sitting on the couch
and watching television and old soccer matches.
Like the notions of my mother
inherently happy for once, not just
professionally cracking a grin and gossiping.
Like the whims of myself
finally able to end this whole mess.
There’s only one way to die.

My parents think they love.
I was the sole ordeal in bed either of them either experienced,
a nine-month wait and taking cancer pills to alleviate the pain.
I wish the pills worked.
If I weren’t here, they’d be happy.
But I am.
And they aren’t.
So I lie down and fantasize
about how happy everyone would be if I were dead.
It’s fun to stop breathing.
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