Please Tell Me


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Please tell me,


when you tightened my shackles


with your soft murmurs, piercing stares, and whispers


that my scars read you the story...


telling you of the generations that made me.


So I could build an empire one day


or did you see social services, the first generation status, or the mark left


by the death of a mother....?


did you stop there...?


or did you turn the page?


Please tell me you’ll stay for the rest of the story 


that my present and future,


will drown out the voices from the past.


That my scars will make you take off the blinders...


and make you wonder why I kept the shackles so long.


Why the words  would fail to leave my mouth and instead formed a traffic


jam in my throat.


Because I tightened the shackles  just as much as


social services, a broken healthcare system, and a single parent had.


I played a role too. 


Setting myself free was a labor of love - of generations of immigrants, of


strong independent women , and the touch of education that sharpened


my tools enough - that could sheer away my shackles 


and take off the blinders too. 

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