Furniture.

I can’t.
Not anymore.
I am not going to be treated like a piece of furniture.
Old.
Eaten by termites.

You do not have any right to meddle in my life.
You weren’t there at the very start of it.
You sit there, smug, satisfied.
Glad that, once again, you’ve had your way.
You bastard.

You haven’t been the conventional villain.
No.
You’ve been worse.
Because you think you’re doing some good.
That’s the worst kind.

I’m not a chair or a table, I’m your daughter!
Don’t brush away my opinions like a layer of dust.
I’m building my castles in the air.
Don’t you dare crush them with your own.

I want to know what shapes the clouds of my future will take for me.
Not what you think, feel, or suggest.
I’m one listening to your orders.
You so conveniently say they’re for my own good.
I don’t want to believe you anymore.

So here, I sit with a fresh page in front of me.
Ready to restart.
Re-dream.
Without your “guiding hand”
Or iron fist.

Get away from me.
I hate you.
I hate you and your sneering looks and small, beady eyes.
You and your sweaty hands, and slimy touch.
The touch which so often leaves me in tears at night.

I want to get away.
NOW.
Or I’m afraid I won’t be strong enough.
Maybe, just maybe.
Maybe I’ll end up being just another piece of furniture.

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~ by cranialrumblings on February 1, 2009.

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