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After a Fight with the Parents

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I’ve never asked for much. I’m not one of those teenagers who cry and throw a fit because they didn’t get me the latest iPhone or a dog. I never ask for material objects. The things I ask for are perhaps a shoulder to cry on, an ear that listens. But I suppose these are harder to obtain than anything else in the world. They don’t understand me? I can handle that. They don’t listen? All right. But then they think that they have the right to lecture me, to say that I’m the one who doesn’t understand, to shout since they think I can’t hear? I can hear just fine. There’s a fine line between hearing and listening though based on the way they act. They hear me, but it’s as though they didn’t understand a single thing I said. They begin their own sermon immediately, off on a tangent as my words evaporate into nothing. I would like to return the favor, hearing and not listening, because when I listen, it’s too painful, too ridiculous, too unbearable. Perhaps I’m wrong, and I’ve always been wrong, according to them. They say they can’t have a conversation with me because I don’t listen. But when will they listen to me? I’ve never asked for much, or so I think. They’ve given me a roof over my head, food and water, a laptop so I can write this heresy, and more. As the dull roar of their voices pounds in my ear, I’m sure they give me love, too. Then why, why is it that I still want more? Am I ungrateful? Am I selfish? Am I a voice in my family? Tell me; I’m listening.



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