a sinister sort of compromise I know exactly what you are despite making me feel like all your faults are mine-- You're a pervert so you call me a whore. Every time you beat me physically, or tried to break my spirit--I learned how to respect myself, how not to accept that from you and any other form of imposition on my person from anyone else. Not because of you but because of me. I wish I stood up more and took the beatings instead of taking your words and your rules which were so much worse. Don't get me wrong--I don't blame you for anything--because you don't deserve any credit in who I am today. You've trained us all so well to protect your reputation that now--if and when we fall apart--the outside world feels sorry for you for bearing with us. Let them think what they want because you're old and your self-imposed misery has made you older and I'm sure that when you die-- you'll have lots of strangers weeping for you at your funeral. Thanks for all the money you constantly remind us you resent spending on our education. I'll pay every bit of it back as long as you're alive and I'll stay quiet. I'll paint you as the supportive, charming and deeply good person you want so badly to be. Don't worry I've learned how to be public about everything everyone else is too afraid to say-- just so I can keep this in for you. Not for you, for the irony, for the fact that every time I swallow down everything I want to say about you--the injustice you caused by asking us to be quiet is compounded. Every time I keep it down your face gets a little uglier and a little more pathetic-- and that's what you want. You made us your liars and your gravediggers-- and I'm more than happy to dig. I'll never be a full time digger and unlike you I'll laugh from my belly everyday. One day I'll stop digging. One day I'll bury you. And that day I'll laugh too. |