It was supposed to be important.
I try not to put expectations in places where they do not grow. I fail as I hope for friendly surprises.
Guilty, dazed, and burdened she faces my expectation. Putting emphasis into failed attempts.
Trying to make herself believe that it is important.
She's a rebel of socities constructs and celebrations. She lies to herself trying to stiffle her agonizing guilt.
Society tells us its important, and when my expectations remain steady high above her, so high she cannot fathom touching it's reality, she mourns her apathy.
More excuses. And another excuse, followed by more excuses.
I try to hold her pieces together. Tears and failed mother daughter relationship war stories take precious time making me wonder if being born was woth it. Things were ok when she's felt ok.
I mean I can put this aside. I can put aside this seasonal pain and deal with it on my own.
Afterall it is just my birthday.
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