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.