Shadowed

I am the echo of a name borrowed,

A faint trace of someone else's story.

Not a blessing, not a triumph, just a space filled,

A daughter forged in the fire of neglect.

They tell me to hush my pain,

For my sister's wounds are deeper,

Her scars more pronounced,

Her battles worthier of the battlefield.

And so, I hold my hurt like a secret,

A weight pressing on my ribs,

But never worthy of a voice.

My father looks at me and sees nothing,

Or perhaps he sees too much of himself,

The worst parts reflected in my eyes,

His silence cuts deeper than his words.

My mother, a storm I’ve never weathered,

Her disdain for daughters bleeds into the walls,

And I am swallowed whole by her indifference.

I am the middle ground,

The "not enough" between extremes.

Not the firstborn pride,

Not the last-born joy,

Just the shadow that fills the cracks.

My sister bears the brunt, they say,

So my pain must step aside,

Bow its head,

And fold itself into the silence.

But what about the days I feel fractured,

The nights when my breath feels borrowed,

When my reflection is a stranger

Whispering, “You’re nothing”?

What about the weight I carry,

The screams locked behind my teeth?

Are they less real because they don’t belong to the firstborn?

I am here,

Half-seen, half-heard, half-loved.

A second thought in a family

That only celebrates the extremes.

So I make the choice,

Stay silent,

Don’t wear it bare,

Don’t let it breathe.

Shadows have stories,

But they don’t speak.