Dear Adoption, Do You Still Think You Own Me?
I am the faceless girl—the head-banger from crib 22, biting her own wrists for hours on end, as she sat in a diaper overloaded with day-old shit. “Failure to thrive, but pretty,”—and so a goldmine for you. A sexual predator’s dream come true. And even better, my eyes were so green they almost looked blue in the light.
My new family paid good money for me, so how could I not think of myself as an object? A thing to be bought, sold, owned, returned, exchanged, and eventually discarded after I was broken.
Adoption, even at 33 years of age, I still don’t really know what to make of you. You are too complex to unravel, and I resent each moment I must spend trying to peel you apart—layer by layer, in order to find the inner peace of a pre-trauma…
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