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.