Words written in white spaces

It’s the kind of thought that buries itself in the mind, like corpses in the closet or shadows behind the chair.
It’s like the shy admiration of a child and anguished quietude; like the grinding, desperate feeling behind a plea for attention.
Accept me, it says, and it cries.  Nobody hears it.
It’s the words written in the white spaces between slanted lines.  The words saying I only love my child when she behaves.  I only love my child when she performs well.
It’s the ringing echo behind every accomplishment, disfiguring praise and numbing the tip of each finger.  It’s the nausea behind fake talents.
It’s the glare, the stare, the hollow voice.  The ignorance, the blindness.  It’s a mountain called a hill.  It’s the dead.
It’s the thought that outlines every fear.  It’s they didn’t want me they didn’t love me they threw me away.