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.