it’s been so long.

it was the feeling i despised, really.but i’m a living person. how could i go without food?should i hate my parents? what did they do wrong?had me years earlier, but my younger brother exists.could i really look at them and ask why they became teenage parents? they sent me to school early. my brain wasn’t bad.that’s another thing—my brain has never been bad. if i think deeply, unbiased,i hate the person, not the feeling.the feeling is brought by the world.you see the sun. it’s hot sometimes, sometimes decorative.the moon looks orange before it clears,but never my favourite colour—blue. it’s the sensible thing to grow up.do something. be something.something… but she—she did.she did many things.her hands are calloused.her heart stitched.her eyes almost blind. what’s her bank account? know her name? no. maybe her neighbours often forget her too.thus, it’s the person i hate.without excuses.without luck. because…how does she keep failing?