Mother, I don't feel well.
I have been vomiting black-inked words of misery since I was 14. They thought it was evil, that I need God.
Will you tell me when Iāll be better?
Scratch my head like you used to, so I can fall asleep?
Will you let me hide in the closet, drowning in the comfort of our folded clothes?
Will you please tell me without me having to ask?
Ever since I recognized the space between us, Mother, I havenāt been vulnerable with you. We havenāt been vulnerable with each other. In your eyes, I am a familiar mystery you want to pity and understand, and to me, you are a familiar wound that will never heal.
It was never a practice at home to tell each other how we feel. So I have been burying sentiments you will never know, and I will keep burying them until the day comes when you discover all the corpses Iāve hidden, without ever having to dig.