make me fit

You’re so much like your father my mother says, eyes sad.
She means I’m rude and antisocial and always stressed,
yet music spills from my soul to my fingers to the keys of a piano
that rarely gathers dust.
You sound like your mother, my father says, sour like lemon seeds.
He means I speak my mind too much, and I don’t sit down when he tells me to,
yet when I smile the sun rises, and my laughter rings out loud and clear,
like the bells of a church.
I’m a walking contradiction, a puzzle with complicated pieces, and sometimes,
sometimes the pieces don’t really fit and solving me is hard work.
Mother, tell me, is it worth it?
Father, tell me, is it worth it?
I do all the work, yet the big picture still evades me.
You’ve given me all the pieces with no guidelines, and here I am,
scrambling to make them fit.
What if I don’t fit?
Let me scatter the pieces and make something new, a shining prototype,
like Frankenstein’s monster, being stitched together,
like Talos, brought to life with fire and metal and heavenly grace.
Let me make something new and let me not fit, no, not fit at all,
a new kind of puzzle, all jagged edges and beautiful colours.
Let me not fit, for that is who I am, no guidelines or restrictions.
Please, God, let me never fit.

By Rodopiani C., 20, Greece