What Made Me

It's so cold. With no one here. Not so bold. When you're some place you fear. Passenger's seat to my end. Almost seventeen years ago. There's no reason to pretend. My weakness will always show. Not even born. And I lost my father. Now, my feelings are so torn. Why should I care? Why should I bother. Everyone tells me. It's easier this way. You never got to know him, you see. So, it doesn't hurt as much. Missing him from day to day. Yes, because I turned out for the better. Because I know there are people who are worse off. So I'm not locked with this fetter. My pain, I can easily scoff. And I don't blame the girls on the other side. They have to live with the guilt. Seeing how my father died. And I see how their faith seemed to wilt. They were my age. Driving to a celebration. So how could I feel any rage? For them, I feel no frustration. I can't be angry at my father, either. I'm sure he's not thrilled. Taking a permanent breather. Being dead and killed. People mistake my hardness for pain. Mistake it for something it's not. I've lived with this my entire life, at times, it's driven me insane. And yes, sometimes, it does hurt a lot. But I never met him, right? Never got to know the man. So why should speaking about it make my throat tight? Wasn't this all just part of the "Plan"? Yes, it hurts. And yes, I cry. At times, I wish and pray. That I would be the one to die. Living with this from day to day. But I always stay strong. Appearing to be tough and independent. Because, being impassive, is an emotion for which I long. To be emotionless and distant.