Are We Family ?

Yes, we are family,
but I don’t feel included.
I was never part of those memories—
just standing there like an iroko tree.
But even an iroko tree gets noticed, admired…
maybe I am invisible.

Yes, we are family.
Why do I yearn to be among?
Why did you include me
when you never intended
to make me feel like I belonged?

My wound is deep as an anthill.
I stare. I crave. I taste.
Yet still, I’m never quite perfect enough
to be added.

Now I feel empty—
this fear with no reason,
these unstable emotions.
I’ve cried, but there’s nothing left to shed.

I wished for a happy family,
but I was given out.
I was myself—
you called it pretense.
I tried to act how you wanted—
you called it my real self.
I smirked.
Nothing could please you.

I came, invited,
to this new family…
but are we family?

I feel used—
just because you helped me.
Voicing out is meaningless.
My ideas don’t count.
You see me as dull, not smart,
never knowing me at all.

But I am strong.
Strong enough not to give up.
Strong enough to hope.

A hope to be isolated.
A hope to rebuild myself.
A hope to be spiritually enlightened.
A hope to be happy.

Have you ever felt this?
It’s painful—
like salt poured on a wound.
Have you ever stood among
a family you craved,
yet asked, trembling:
Are we family?