Did I Ask?

By: Abisola Fashakin

Did I ask to be “ugly” and “fat”? Did I ask to be sarcastic, fucked up, and “harsh”? Did I ask to be a crazy, weird, unhinged proletariat? Did I ask for my body to be sawed open to save myself from my tainted appendix? Did I ask to be isolated, oppressed and scared? Did I ask to have 2 working parents who come home like a mouse barely escaping the clutches of a cat? Did I ask to constantly feel tortured as if I was fettered to red-hot shackles as my vision grew blurry? Did I ask for the mother of my mother and the father of my father to be dead? No. But I guess you didn’t ask to be a bitch. You didn’t ask to have a hypocritical “aristocrat” for a father and a soundless dunce for a mother. You didn’t ask to have a “food problem”. You didn’t ask to have your heart broken over and over again, and to feel like hope was just a fabrication made by your ill invented nightmare. We didn’t ask. But I guess by some twisted rule of fate we both deserved it.

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