Those who do not understand what it is like to originate from a broken family tend to make the excuse that during festivity,

I will receive more presents,

Some from my mother,

Some from my father,

And those same individuals prompt me to feel lucky and blessed for the position I find myself in,

But the gifts don't matter to me,

For I am constantly drained in a malicious cycle of being thrown back and forth between households,

Constantly battling through lies and deceit that spits like a wild cat,

Trying to fathom who is right and who is wrong,

Or if every word I am told is a lie.