PARENT

A choking, suffocating obstruction,

A living thing scratching at the walls of my own throat and heart.

It has a voice, one that I should listen to, or else I end up a beast, just another ugly beast.

It tells me what to believe in, what to wear, what to say, and why.

I question not, for to question would be to hurt it, to urge a violent reaction. The fault would surely be mine.

So I sit and do what I am told. I scream like it does; I am not bold.

I sit and do what I am told. I love who it tells me to love. I throw myself at the feet of its altars and shrines. I beg whatever out there is divine to have mercy upon my soul for ever having other wishes. It pleases them when I cry.

I sit and try to cry, to weep at the vibrant colors of my personality, for every hue is surely a sin. Yet I cannot force a tear, and the omniscient executioner knows this.

“I’m sorry!” I plead. I owe them my despair. I owe them a bottle full of misery.

They tell me to be different, that I cannot stay as one person or thing, or grow and make art, or speak from within.

To put my soul on a canvas, or simply love another man—

Even for these thoughts, my skin should burn, they tell me.

The same skin they had kissed tenderly when I was but a child, back when my mind was more easily molded to their desires.

For if they brought me into this world, is my soul, mind, and future not just another property of theirs?

Who am I to say otherwise?