The Immaturity of Age

Anger pulse through my veins.
I am only seventeen.
You are the adult I scream,
not me, you.
I shouldn’t have to do this,
shouldn’t have to watch you lock yourself in your room.
That should be me not you,
I am the seventeen year old.
How old are you?
Why am I asking you that?
You should be asking me that.
You ask me what seventeen year old acts like this?
I am not seventeen, you are.
I am fifty two.
I am you and you are me.
My fists clench.
You want respect?
I am supposed to respect an unruly seventeen year old,
an unappreciative little brat who only concerns are of herself.
I don’t think so.
I’m the adult, you respect me.
My knuckles whiten.
Back away from my face,
and stop crying, do you see me crying?
Go ahead; repeat what you’ve been saying over and over again.
Do you hear me?
I don’t think you do.
Oh, but I hear you.
The neighbors hear you.
My eyes squint.
I know I am such a b****.
You hate me,
tell me that I am ruining your life.
Go ahead,
slam the door in my face one more time why don’t you?
I forgot,
you can do whatever you want.
I am only you daughter,
I am only seventeen.