Since When Did You Care What Your Parents Thought
since when did you care about what your parents thought
their trembling hands clutching dusty photo albums,
dreams for you etched in whispers,
like the fine print on a warranty you never read.
smart, they said,
smart enough to untangle the wires,
but never the knots in your chest.
immortal—they wanted you invincible,
a timepiece that slowed down
only for holidays and funerals,
never noticing that your hours burned faster than theirs.
abstinence, they prayed,
as if purity were a shield
against the sharp teeth of the world,1
but science taught you
the chemistry of craving,
the physics of loneliness,
the biology of need.
they wanted you science-oriented,
but you learned to dissect their dreams,
and the heart, you found,
was just another organ
pumping blood
into someone else's expectations.
So since when did you care?
you don't.
you never did.
broke and trying to raise two kid's
before age twenty.
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