To my parents, a child was not a clay piece to mould with a master's hand, or a house that needed to be built up. A child is already a skyscraper that blocks the view of the landscape, or a tree that needs to be felled to make way for a parking lot. & oh, the cars they parked over me. Cars whose drivers were molesters. Trucks whose beds were piled high with excuses, empty promises, disappointments, backhanded compliments, interruptions & interjections. Cars whose trunks hid hateful words, accusations, pointed fingers, upturned noses, condescending looks, faces red from screaming, exasperated sighs & enough rolled eyeballs to make your head spin. They parked traffic-jam's worth of vehicles, stuffed & threatening to burst, of spankings for all the wrongs they thought they could slap right. To my parents, a child should not be guided, but told the way; a child should not wander & find his own path, but be dragged by the hair down the one they once marched obediently. To my parents, a child's spirit is to be methodically torn down; the gaping hole it leaves is to be packed tightly with worries of what others would think & beliefs that the world is untrustworthy, angry, spiteful, & always alert to where you are vulnerable. They never realized that when they thought they were gazing through windows, they were, in fact, with wild, bloodshot eyes, staring down mirrors.
to: my parents