Tiring, That's What This Is. Tiring.

[rachelleneveu]

Dear Atlas,

 

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that your age is catching up to you. I’m sorry that your brother-in-law’s cane – meant to be left as a relic set upon an altar, never to be used – is the only thing that is helping you stand today.

I’m sorry that I am not better. I’m sorry that I am selfish, sorry that I am bitter and sad and not your other daughter – that star-stuck godly girl whose prizes you praise daily. I am sorry that I am not good enough for you, that the things I do – the stories I write, the money I earn, the time I’ve dedicated to helping you and the Medea-mad woman I’ve called “mother” – do not make me a decent daughter. Hang the gold your youngest has earned and hide the glass I’ve won, for nothing of mine is worthy of that shelf you lay your trophies on. I’ll hide in shame with my books and my brains, let your pretty, petty Electra take the spotlight and shine. I’ll sweep the stage when she’s through; brush away the rose petals and the thorny stems left behind, for I know I don’t deserve the praise you give to her. I understand – I know that I’m not the daughter you wish you had, that I never will be, and I’m sorry that for all I do, for all that I’ve given, that I will never be good enough for you.

I’m sorry that I am not willing to hold the weight you bear. I am sorry that I want more than what you’ve offered, but there is more to this universe than what you carry; more than what I can find on this plaster globe you want me to call the world. I will not follow in your footsteps, Father, and I will not take up your burden.

I’m sorry.

Sincerely,

Merope, not Maia