From my birth, there came anger.

I was favorited by my grandparents. I didn't do anything to make it that way, but as far back as I can remember, me and my grandparents were always having such fun together. My sisters felt unloved, and they felt angry, angry that they weren't treated like I was. What I wanted, I got. If I made a mistake, I was forgiven. It wasn't quite the same for them. And I knew that, and I really did my best to make sure it stopped. If my sisters were treated unfairly, I yelled and got angry. But it didn't work, and they still love me, and I don't think my sisters do.

From my birth, there came fighting.

My sisters told my parents of how they were treated by my grandparents. Sometimes, the stories they told were true. Sometimes, I personally think they were a little over exaggerated. Either way. Doesn't matter, I guess. Not anymore. It's far too late.

My mother told my father to do something about it, to talk to his parents. He always said that they didn't mean it, and it was no big deal, and he did nothing. So nothing changed, ever, no matter how many years passed, and no matter how many stories my sisters told. And so, my parents began to fight, because my mother did not like how my father did nothing.

And their fights grew more and more intense, more screaming, more violence. My sisters and I could hear it through the house, as we sat downstairs watching television. But we didn't know what to do, because we were so young. All I knew, is that it was all my fault that it had happened.

The fighting never stopped, no matter how many years passed. My father became more angry, and my mother more depressed. These are not good qualities to have in a parent, which we all soon learned.

They began to ignore us, and we all felt like they no longer cared. Each parent picked a favorite, and it was not me, and this only lead to more fighting, because we all were at odds now.

The fighting extended from my parents to every member of our home. My mother and younger sister, loud and angry fights about my little sisters. My two little sisters, long and neverending, over nothing. Me and my father, words used against each other to make the other feel pain.

All these fights became physical, very very physical. We were trying to hurt each other. We wanted our pain and sufferings to end, but we were only making it worse.

And still, it was my fault.

Even now, when my parents have been seperated for almost two years, the fighting hasn't stopped. It has only gotten worse. I have shut myself off from it, hiding far away in my secluded mind, knowing. Knowing what they know, but won't say.

They know it's my fault. If I had never been born, none of it would have happened.

I say this, and they tell me it's not true, but the lie.

Please, stop lieing.

Somebody just tell me the truth, please.

I know it, so say it to me. Tell me it's my fault, all this destruction.

Say what I say.

That from my birth, there came hate.