I'm the first born daughter in a hispanic household.
I think that explains most of my stories now,
The stories where I stayed around for men who didn't love me,
Let men mistreat me for so long,
Tried to help and care for men that could have very easily taken care of themselves,
Forgiven men who belittled me and tossed me like trash,
As I didn't feel it enough as is.
I don't hate my father,
I love him very much,
He and I are extremely similar and my sarcasm comes directly from him.
But I've seen the way he's treated my mother,
Ive seen how she's treated him.
The yelling and fighting, accusing of things that are too far fetched to be true,
Sitting down quietly waiting for it to end while my brother sobbed begging them to stop.
As I grew older and their fights progressed I got bolder-
Telling them I'll find them a divorce lawyer if they're this serious about their hateful emotions.
It felt as if Fairy Godmother herself had come down and waved a wand singing bippity boppity boo,
The fights diminished and soon became rare.
Even though their fights ended,
There was still the fight in myself where I felt I needed to beg someone to love me,
And if I couldn't provide them with everything they could possibly want then they wouldn't need me.
I'm sad to say that I still feel this way.
But I'm trying.
I'm trying as hard as I can.
I'm breaking the generational curse that is to be a young hispanic woman.
