in case you were wondering, which you aren’t

(P.C. Pinterest)

there are a thousand different ways this could’ve begun, but here we are. draft no. 5. it’s one of those times when you don’t realize if you’ve run out of words or outrun them, that you keep typing and deleting every sentence you wish the person behind the screen to see. you’d assume this would be comparatively easier than that, especially with no one on the other side of the screen that’s ever going to read this. except the lonely child in me keeps saying yes, there is and therefore i must have the right words arranged in the right way to deliver maximum impact. some days, i want to write more than i ever could. so much that my fingers ache and my brain hurts and my tear ducts dry permanently, till blood comes out of my eyes and skin and i turn into an empty shell. again. except, i can’t. i can’t, so i think of ways things could’ve gone different, of ways you could’ve ended this and i would’ve never had to see the daylight. why couldn’t you, ma? seventeen years and i have learned the difference between a mother made out of obligation and a mother made out of pure want, love, anything tender. you love me but you don’t love me. cradle my body in your arms, warmth seeping into my skin, and i might even say it’s the scent of love, but where is it? where does it go every time you talk about how hard it is to raise someone like me and all the ways you manage to turn me into this small insolent ungrateful fucking creature? where does it go when you slice my heart open with your daggers of words and insults, and all i could think about is how undeserving you are of me, that you deserve everything better — a better house, a better marriage, a better husband, a better child — and nicer. you’re a friend, but you aren’t my friend, haven’t been so for over a year now. we share a love, except mine hasn’t taken its shape and yours comes with a list of terms and conditions. it’s a paradox, at its best. there are days i wonder what it’d look like if you weren’t my mother. or if i didn’t have one like shibana, the alleged illegitimate kid of your older brother. at least her displacement makes sense to the world. but me? i’m your legal, rightful blood. i have you, all of you. and you have me, though i know you’ve been looking for a receipt to return me for seventeen years. for the past few years, i’ve been trying to figure out how to be small enough so istop getting in the way of the life you actually wanted. tell me, did you raise me simply because everyone said you had to? simply because one day it was a duty and you thought it’d soon morph into love but it didn’t, only partially though, and now i’m an investment that failed to mature? tell me, of all the times you wanted me to tell you what goes on up in my head, how many were an attempt to taste what control feels like? how many were various ways of gaslighting me and repeating the same mantra of how you put a roof over my head and food in my mouth and that i should forever be grateful for all that as if i was the one that whispered in your ears to have a baby? do you ever go to bed and think over the words you throw aimlessly at me, or do you think of those that must’ve hit the spot you hopelessly aimed for? what is love, ma? don’t laugh or shake your head at me, please. is it you dragging your feet to the kitchen every morning with half-closed eyes because you’ve been told it’s your duty to feed us, or is it insulting your kid every chance you egt so she learns how to respect others? do you truly love me, ma? like love love? would you think but i’ve done everything for her, sacrificed my life so she doesn’t feel left out, isn’t that enough, isn’t that love? is that what it looks like ma? a cycle, unfed daughters weeping in the kitchen till they dissolve into the billows of steam, charred hearts fed upon by beetles and ants, angry daughters tiptoeing around the ever-changing moods of their protectors. did you repeat what you tell me the most after i go back into my room, trying my best not to have another meltdown: i could’ve abandoned you on the side of the road or starved you to death but i didn’t do either, and therefore you must be grateful and never talk back, never look at us in the eye, never even think of crossing what we say? i look at shibana and envy her. i hope one day she could see how her mother’s absence was a big fucking relief. it’s a clean wound for her, you see. but you think i’m being difficult, stubborn. have you ever sat back and thought of who your punching bag is? ever thought why you feel lighter every time we have a fight? is that love, ma? do you know what love is? did your mother do the same to you? can we ever stop

right. i’m spiraling again. you’d tell me to go to sleep, that i’m being dramatic and that i think too much. and maybe i do. the cursor is waiting for a draft no. 6. there won’t be one. i’m going to close the tab now. this is where i realize i cannot rewrite you, and you cannot love me the way i need. so i’m letting go of the receipt. i’m small enough now. you can have your room back. keep the life you wanted. am finally stepping out of the way.

sorry, i wasn’t nicer enough.