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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I could feel it building before she even spoke. The pressure in the air, the deep regret. I recognize the look, the shift. It’s strange how familiar it feels. How easily my heart plummets to the floor. How loud the silence grows before everything shatters. I spend most of my days translating, reading her tone like the weather. I rearrange my thoughts before they reach her, as if one wrong word might detonate the world. What am I supposed to say when she asks if it’s normal, if the anger is justified? Admit that I flinch sometimes? Admit that I hear my father, incalculable and groundless? No, she’s not asking for the truth; she’s asking to be soothed for what she’s done. Then comes the warmth, the soft embrace, the breakfast in bed. So I forgive her again, watching her form a trashy mosaic from what’s left of me, my pieces pressed together with cheap glue that never really holds. It’s not all bad. There are still mornings that feel safe. I stay for those small reprieves, the moments she’s gentle enough to make me question my own memory. I stay to hear her whisper reste avec moi, but I’m not sure I understand the language anymore. A quiet voice asks if I should go. Give up justifying the cage she’s put me in. Give up waiting for the love she’s saving for someone else. But I’ll stay, if just for the strange comfort of familiarity.
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