I Hate My Name

You want everyone to love you though you treat us all like shit.
You demand respect when you give none.
I'm sick and tired of this. Tired of you blaming everything on me, tired of the looks you give me, like I'm some sort of competition, like I'm dirt on your immaculate floor.
You never loved me.
And I knew it, too, even when I was small. I could always tell, there was always that doubt and suspicion in my mind, as far back as I can remember, it's always been there. You treated me differently from the rest, the way you say my name, even to this day, hold your contempt for me in it.
Do you even know how much I hate my own name? I hate hearing you say it.
Even the way you look at me was different from how you look at them.
I just want to know

I'd clean when you wouldn't ask me to, I'd work as best as I could on my math problems even as you shouted and hit me for being so stupid. Even if I got good grades, if I had the highest reading and writing scores in the school, if I drew a good picture or tried my hardest to stay out of trouble, it was never enough.
I was never enough.
Every mistake I made, every fault and flaw you pounced on and slapped me with it. In your eyes, I am good for nothing-you once told me I was no better than a prostitute, but then, you added, even if I was one, no one would want me because of my weight. Every beating, every insult tore at me. I have far too many memories of crying before I went to sleep because I could never figure out why you hated me so much, why I had to have been born to a mother like you.
Day after day I remember wishing I had the courage to call the police, a neighbor, anyone, and tell them what you were doing. I wished I had the courage to stand up to you, wishing dad would step in and defend us, because no matter what we may have done, no child deserves to be beaten in any way.
I used to go as far as to wishing I would get kidnapped, run over, lost in a large crowd, anything, just as long as I wouldn't have to go back home with