You look outwards toward the window, chewing hard on your lower lip so that you don’t saying something you’ll regret. After all, if you don’t have anything nice to say, well, you know the rest. You dig your nails into your legs, focusing on that rather than the lecture/monologue/real talk she’s trying to have with you.
You know she means well.
But, thats exactly the problem.
There’s a difference between meaning well and doing well.
Anyways, its still not easy to bear the criticism with grace.
After all, does she interrogate your brother on his fashion choices? Does she nitpick his hair? Does she tell him that he’s gotten fat over the years?
There are times when you feel her grip on your spirit so tight you can barely breathe through the silent suffocation.
You need room to breathe.
“And sometimes you dress like you’re slow,“ she continues, trying to catch your eye through the car window. Her voice softens when you let her win, like you always do, “You need to do better baby.“ And her condescension is thick, well meaning, and maternal.
You nod, before letting your eyes drift back into the quiet roads.
You nod, but your heart’s not in it.
What you really need is to be yourself.
You wondered when that stopped being enough.
