Maybe I speak so softly, dear father, because of your relentless insistence that I was too loud in my youth: “Children should be seen, not heard.”
Though I am no longer a child, and what you didn’t know was that every strangled sound I created was a feeble attempt at drowning out the thoughts that you put in my head.
And maybe I dress so dreary, sweet mother, because of your constant comparisons of me to you that fixated on the flaws now woven into my very being: “The apple must have fallen far from this tree.”
Though I have never been the apple of your eye, and what you didn’t know was that every grey garment I dawned was a feeble attempt at fading out of focus to escape the anxiety that you put in my head.
And maybe I seem so bitter, cruel fate, Because of your instruction to strive for some light at the end of the tunnel that I was promised: “Everything will work out in the end. You’ll see.”
Though what I didn’t know then was that at my end there would be no such fabled light to see at all but instead a broken mirror, depicting the gnarled image of myself that they put in my head.
Why malicious mother did you force your unattainable expectations upon me? As if because I was your daughter, I couldn’t have a voice of my own.
And why ferocious father did you have to control every aspect of my life with your iron fist? As if because I was your daughter, I couldn’t have a mind of my own.
And why cruel fate am I standing here, left alone now on this pier? As if because I was born into this life, it was somehow the one I chose.
With their thoughts being thrust down my throat it’s no wonder that my voice, no, my mind b r o k e .
A cranium that cracked like an egg whose shell was not thick enough for this world, this torment.
Torment that’s still there on the both of your hands that you pay no mind to as you slowly stroll away.
While I stay, standing here, slightly shaking.
And breath in
until my lungs are so full of air that the atmosphere must cease to exist.
And then scream out
into the roaring ocean that is ravenous in its consumption of my sorrow.
Soaking it in
so all anyone else hears is silence.
And nobody’s the wiser.
- Influenced by Edvard Munch’s The Scream