Brickwall

i could describe my father in one word 
brickwall.  

i stand in the courtroom called home,  
arguments stacked like proof,  
but reason slides off brick,  
and the brickwall stays the brickwall.  
the brickwall is always right.  

stamp stamp stamp  
i storm to my room,  
anger echoing down the hall.  
SLAM.
the sound splits the air open,  
and the brickwall hears it as defiance.  

he follows,  
a monument to his own righteousness.  
he tells me he’s only trying to help,  
that if he pushes hard enough,  
corrects long enough,  
i’ll turn into someone  
my friends could truly like
like the version he imagines they respect,  
instead of the one they already accept as I am.  

then comes the subtle twist of the knife:  
how different things would’ve been  
if he’d never brought me here,  
how i might have turned out right in china,  
how america made me soft,  
too loud, too proud 
a mistake the move carved into me.  

i lean back at the edge of my bed,  
his shadow overtaking mine.  
he jerks his hand forward suddenly
a sharp, deliberate move,  
just close enough to make me flinch,  
then freezes midair,  
his whole body pulled tight,  
like the bare minimum he can offer  
is stopping himself at the brink.  

everything here bears his claim,  
from the doorknob to the air itself.  
my words slam against him and shatter,  
their pieces falling unheard to the floor.  
the brickwall hears nothing,  
because hearing would mean listening,  
and listening would mean cracks.  
but the brickwall has no cracks.  
only stone.  
always right.  
always.