So dance, fucker, dance. He never stood a chance.

Dear Sir,

I am calling you sir merely because I have no better way to describe you. You, who would probably be better suited for ‘douche bag’ or ‘asshole’. You, who calls me immature and childish, and yet refuses to work somewhere so he can pay the bills - so he can help for the six children who live here, feed their mouths and pay for their showers. You, who pretends to care while my mom is around and the second she leaves, you retreat down into your cave, where we’re not allowed to go even though this is OUR house. You, who is furious with my mom when we eat OUR food in OUR house.

You, who tells me I’m a child, even though I grew up a long time ago. You who refuses to believe that I can walk places I want to go, that I can make my own food, do my own laundry, wash my own dishes and clean my own room. You, who refuses to believe that I lost any innocence I had when I was nine and I started hanging out with people much older and much more mature than I. You, who refuses to believe my mom will slip and that things will change. Just because things change doesn’t mean I can go back to being me. I am not an innocent little girl - I am NOT Kailey by any means. If you call me an eleven year old one more time, I swear to god I will lose my shit.

You. You, condescending, disrespectful you with your dirty looks and sharp remarks. You who doesn’t believe that I can write a novel, that I can paint a masterpiece, that I can photograph something beautiful. You, who calls me weird and ‘eccentric’ and a freak and expects me to respect you. I’m tired of keeping my mouth shut. I wonder what you would think, if you understood that I’m not afraid of your opinion. That I am who I am simply because I was born this way, that I will not conform to an immature man’s opinion of what is considered normal. You, with your carbon-copy children with bright blonde hair and bright blue eyes. You, stereotypical you, who can’t believe that I will not fit your definition of normal. You, bigot you, who would make fun of a gay man over someone who really deserved it.

Sir, you need a reality check of the worst kind. You need for someone to walk up to you and tell you these things. That fake actions will not get you far or any respect. That I am not a child and that I’m tired of the way you change my mom around, the way you broke her heart so entirely over and over to the point of where she thinks she needs to change herself to be beautiful. You need to understand when you need give up, to butt out of my business and stop making my cry. You aren’t a good person, in my eyes. I’ve come to terms with you moving out but I wouldn’t shed a tear if you left. If something happened to you.

I am tired of you, sir. You don’t deserve my respect or my anger. I’m tempted to print this out and leave it on your top step but I won’t. Instead, I will stop relying on you. You will stop touching my things, talking to me, making my food and things of the like. You will stop with your sharp remarks and cold looks and you won’t say another word to me that I’ll respond to.

You, sir, are a jackass. I’ll put up with you simply because my mom has asked me to but other than that, I am done.

Fuck you,
Madi.