***

I am the square screen that dad smoothed out with a hot iron,
Shouted by mom in the lesson box, with mistakes,
Gently wiped with the sharp edge of a thin blade.
I have been familiar with this dangerous object since I was seven years old.
I learned how to handle it before I learned how to write.
My mother corrected me, shouting provocatively and not joyfully, placing me there, in a cage...
But it was in vain -
My handwriting, meanwhile, never became a pleasant sight for my mother’s eyes.
Discordant, torn, careless letters are still oozing out of me.