A Conversation I Wish I Could Have.

I’m still alive, but Im barely breathing.

These lyrics could not have hit home as much as it did.

I am a sponge, an urn, a plastic bottle whos been recycled more than used.

I fill up with your stories and make it easier for your shoulders to relax,

The muscles in your mouth to curve.

I am the shoulder to cry on, but there is not even a hand to hold when I need one.

I am a teenage actress who does not want the part she has been given,

An actress who no longer wishes to act.

I am a writer, longing to let myself fly off the pages on which I weave my story.

I am that toy who is overlooked on the shelves at the toy store,

My eyes manufactured to reflect what others want to see,

And not how I want to be seen.

I am the tiny ant, carrying more than its own weight,

But falls helpless when that weight takes advantage of it.

Crushed.

Mangled.

Buried in its work.

I have become the shield that has taken one hit too many to protect others,

and for once,

the idea of my being a camel of the Middle Eastern deserts is appropriate,

for this camel has finally broke its back under these straws of gold you force me to weave.

My parents tell me that respect is a two way street,

When I keep my mouth shut against the toxins they spew forth,

And refuse to rise up to the challenge.

They tell me that I must obey their rules,

Or face the cold concrete jungle and the deserted dirty park benches.

I am not as strong as I am painted to seem.

A plastic round-up toy that only does what its bid.

Respect them, and life will be easy.

You will end up in Yale, but you can’t leave the house until there is someone else to take care of you.

Why can’t you do as well as Janet, or Rebecca, or even

Do we not feed you?

We gave you life, don’t you act as if we can’t see through your ways!

Your plans to leave us, your actions speak louder than the words you scream at us?

Your priorities in life should be God, Family, School, and your career.

But Mom,

Where does my health come into play?

I may have a 94 in the class, but I know what over eating does to you.

I know what it means when you have 5 nervous breakdowns in a span of 2 hours

I know what it means when my joints protest my every move and your every touch.

I know what it means when my heart is hammering nails into my lungs, and

I know what it means when my vision blurs in every light.

But Dad,

What about the other half of your statement?

What about the respect I should be getting?

If I am going to be restricted from my birthrights,

If I am going to be treated like a criminal,

At least give me my Miranda rights!

You say you can see right through me, that you know everything about me,

But you barely know my age!

I am not 16 going on 17.

I am not even close to getting my ticket out of this place I am told is home.

You tell me that if I stay on track, everything will fall into place.

But do you not see that my train of thought crushes me every time it makes a stop

Across my weak frame, across my imagiNation?

You tell me that maybe you’re feeding me the wrong things,

That if you collected the shit of the girls in my class and shoved into the pits of my soul,

I might produce shit worth remembering.

But I cannot be flushed.

I cannot be destroyed.

Your words may find its mark on my skin,

But one day,

You will rue the day that I grew into my own person,

And let the waterflow flow forth.

You will rue the day my springs break down,

And I finally have the freedom from my mind and the rules that bound me down.

You will rue the day when you learn that I feel, I listen, I learn, and I unleash.