Privilege and Shame

I am privileged, and I am ashamed of it.

I live in a kind town
in a steady house.
I live with a loving family
and more than enough food
and clothing
and basic necessities.

Still, I cry at the slightest losses.
I cry often.
Still, I yell over the tiniest nuances.
Still, when they tell me to keep calm,
to remember my privilege,
I run.

I run
because I don't want
privilege.
My favorite characters in my
favorite books don't have
privilege. They are heroes
and heroins and carve their own path
from trauma.

No one wants to here the story
and the tireless qualms
of a bratty little white girl
with a perfect life.

I am horrible in my, as you call it,
abuse of my own privilege.
Take things for granted.
But I wish I didn't have those
things. I wish I could be a hero
rising from nothing,
but I can't. So

Don't tell me it's ok.
Don't tell me you enjoy my presence.
Don't tell me you love me.

I am not worthy your love,
I am not worthy of you,
I am not worthy.

I am privileged, and I am ashamed of it.