Ż

Instead of getting my mother’s nose, I got her habit of speaking a little too loudly. Saturday mornings her voiced leaked through the hinges of my bedroom door. She said, “darling, with that voice of yours sometimes you just gotta listen.” So I did. For years I came across strangers with words that flowed effortlessly out of their mouth—so quick to tell their sorrows to someone, to anyone who’s willing to just listen. Six years later I can still hear the echo of her voice whispering softly, “darling, you just gotta listen.” ​Instead of getting my father’s eyes, I got his tendency to conceal emotions. He said, “darling, don’t you dare let them know you’re hurting, don’t show them your weaknesses.” So I didn’t. I spent years crying in the stalls of empty bathrooms, screaming into pillows so no one could hear me hurting. “I’m fine” I say as my voice cracks, holding back tears. I feel the ache in my bones and my fracturing heart. I buried my emotions so deep, 10 years later I’m still digging, still searching, still hoping to find some way to bring them back. Sometimes late at night I can hear my father’s voice resonate within me, “darling, you’re stronger than this.” He asked if I’m anything like my parents, so I say I’m sorry. I have my mother’s voice, so I learned to listen to what the universe has to offer, and my father’s tendency of concealing emotions sometimes leaves me feeling everything all at once. I swear I’d love you if I could.

this makes my heart ache

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