Dear Entitled Parent, From Atlas of Scars, An Anthology
Dear entitled parent —
are you fucking kidding me?
When did we become
your unpaid audience,
your collateral scenery?
Dear entitled parent —
your PR tone and martyrdom
make the KGB look subtle.
You weaponize “family”
like it’s holy.
You let your kid scooter
down my hallway —
not yours —
like public space is a playpen
I must applaud.
Dear entitled parent —
yes, I would pay a thousand dollars
for an airline designed
by people who understood
basic decency.
How the hell
does that leap to “psychopathy”?
Since when
is your child’s convenience
a license to kick me?
Am I not human, too?
Dear entitled parent —
you stopped traffic
like the world is your valet,
then barked,
“I have three kids — sue me.”
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Dear entitled parent —
your kid dropped a dissected frog
onto my lap in seventh grade
and asked what was wrong with my face.
(It was acne. I was twelve.
You were already failing.)
Decades later —
you still clutch pearls
over “kids these days.”
No accountability,
only legacy.
Dear entitled parent —
you know you have to raise it, right?
Oh — fucking shocker —
apparently not.
I don’t hate your kid.
I hate the blueprint
you built inside their bones.
Dear entitled parent —
do you ever stop
to consider the world
outside your spawn’s reflection?
Or are we all just
background furniture
for your storyline?
Ten kids — really —
the world needed
that many carbon copies
of your ego?
Dear entitled parent —
your daughter nearly killed me
with cruelty she learned
from your dinner-table gospel:
exclusion
passed off as pedigree.
Dear entitled parent —
no, not everyone can
stay home with a sick child —
some people have jobs
without safety nets or husbands
funding their delusion of grace.
Privilege leaks off you
like oil in the gutter.
Dear entitled parent —
for years
I swallowed the fury
you kept earning.
Today
I give it language:
fuck you
and everything
you groomed into being.
