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You were always the troubled child,
the one whose plate for attention
was bigger than the rest.

When you cried,
when you kicked,
when you screamed
arms stretched out to appease.

They made you the boss
and put you in the highest chair,
cleaned and fed and clothed you,
their little goddess.

Because they never let go
of your hand, you never learned
how to use it.
Because they never told you no,
you never learned its meaning.
Because they fed you ease,
you were never equipped to digest difficulty.

You never stood a chance.
In fact you never stood on your own at all,
because they held you,
because they piled your plate with sugar,
because they kept the green beans for themselves.

Every day they tried to keep you
in that small frame, in that photo of you
as a child. Every day
they squeezed you tighter into there,
packed you into there
with their awful love,
rocked you, held you so you couldn't move,
made you ride the hip
so you never learned to walk.

Now late in your years
you stumble
and fall.

They stay up late into the night
worrying what people will think,
asking one another where they went wrong.