The Box

I will not degrade my daughteer. I will uplift her. Encourage her. Remind her, daily, of her beauty, kindness, and passionate spirit. I will nurture her friendships, encourage her creativity, and push her relatability. These traits are not of a mother looking for friendship with her daughter, but they are traits of learned experiences. 

My mother indirectly hurts me. Her unforgiving comments of laziness bruise me. But they are not bruises that go away. The pain stays. The evidence of being hurt stays. She doesn’t mean to harm me. But she does. Now that I am older, and the bruises have accumulated, a deep aching has begun. Not necessarily from the contusions alone, but by the sheer volume of them all. 

She often speaks of her suffocation. Little does she realize, she has engaged in similar behavior. I cannot breathe when she is around. Yet she is the one who gave me breath. I cannot speak when she is near. Yet she is the one who nurtured my speech. I cannot see when she is in front of me. Yet she is the one who taught me to see. If she only knew… 

If she only knew of the pain. If she only knew of my inability to breathe, speak, and see. I know things would be different if she knew. But I can’t let her know. It is my secret. My truth that I haved locked in too small of a box that does not have a key. It is the truth that has the ability to severely harm her.

I can feel the lock of the box weakening with every secret I keep. Every pain I hide. Sometimes a secret will slip, and regret will clench its mutilated hand around my chest. The pain is a reminder of the importance of my secrecy. No one must know. She must never find out. The box must never be opened. 

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