When I was not carrying your burden, my feet weighed as light as the feathers of a homing pigeon. My soul as pure as the whiteness of its body. My wings carried me high and above, taking me wherever I wanted.
But you plucked on my feathers and made quills out of them. Dipping them in my blood, you wrote my life, my destiny for me. How far was I supposed to go? Who was I to meet? All my decisions were in your hands.
You built fresh nests around me and asked me to lay eggs and each time when I refused, you built walls around me, their levels as high as your insecurities.
Now I can barely catch a glimpse of the painted glass windows of the house nearby. They have always joined my screams when you would go away. And I know once I am completely confined in these walls, my screams will not be muffled, rather, they will be so loud, loud enough to explode those windows and send sharp shards flying all around. And at that point I would wish deeply in my heart for one of those to find your way and pierce through your rough and callous skin. I want you to bleed, I want you to cry in pain and then with those broken shards I want to write the destiny of your life, just like you wrote mine.