It’s like being picked last for the team; not thin enough, not pretty enough, not loved enough.
I want so much to play, but you keep pushing me to the back of the line. It’s not fair to expect me to follow the rules when you won’t share the play book with me. I’ve tried to play like all the others—the ones you compare me to without saying it—but it doesn’t seem to make you happy. And it only makes me weep.
I don’t think I want to play anymore. The problem is, I don’t know how to quit you.