We wear our fathers shoes but take on the burdens of our mothers. Our first home and the last when we’ve lost every other. You were the voice inside my head. You were someone I trusted.
I’ve given you the pieces of me, scattered bits of apprehension, told you how I feel about my friends. Asked you to listen. You were someone I trusted.
But I’ve forgotten how much time I’ve spent here, washed out and full of that small-scared feeling that you taught me. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t whisper. I don’t speak. I hide in bathrooms and mid-nights when I weep. You were someone I trusted.
You were someone who shaped me, taught me how to read people, gave me empathy. Taught me timidness and acquiescence. Told me my friends were liars and untrustworthy. You were someone I trusted.
You taught me how to tiptoe and fade into sidewalk chalk drawings. How to not be there but be there all the same. Never sit still, never be stupid, a dumb baby playing pretend. You told me I was unmotivated but gifted. You were someone I trusted.
You taught me how to be a whisper when you needed to be a shout. You taught me how to shake and bend. You taught me how to lose my friends. You told me I didn’t need anyone. You taught me that our mothers are who we become. You told me I shouldn’t have children. You taught me that no one can really be trusted.