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I once heard mothers are gods to their children. It sounded dramatic, excessive and wild. But the older I get, the more clearly I see: you were heaven and earth and religion to me.

The voice that could quiet whatever I feared, the kiss that could make every hurting disappear. You were shelter and safety, the place I belonged. If Mama was with me, then nothing was wrong.

You taught me to question, to write and create, said I was clever, that I could be great. But whenever I dreamed of a world beyond you, of leaving, succeeding, of something brand new,

you cried.

So I stayed.

What kind of a child would trade Mama’s tears for a dream running wild? No school was worth hurting you. Nothing could be. So I buried the future you planted in me.

But Mama, Dad scares me. He screams and he hits. His words leave their venom in thousands of bits. You tell me, He’s family. He loves you. He tries. And I believe Mama.

God wouldn’t lie.

Mama, those men do things I cannot explain. I don’t know the words. I just know there is pain. I don’t feel like me when they’re finally through. There are pieces of me that don’t feel like mine too.

I tell you.

You don’t hear me.

So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe speaking will only make Mama be gone. I’d rather stay silent, let everything be, than lose the one person who still might love me.

So I’m quiet now, Mama.

But Daddy has pills. He won’t miss a few, and they make my head still. There’s beer in the fridge. There is vodka nearby. It burns going down, but for once I don’t cry.

It tastes fucking awful.

But Mama, it works.

For a moment I’m warm. For a moment nothing hurts.

You know that I’m drinking. Of course that you know. You see all the scars and still watch as I go. You cry. You get angry. You ask what I’ve done.

I’m trying to tell you:

I don’t know how to run.

Therapy’s useless. The medicine’s bad. That’s what you tell me, so that’s what I have. A fist through a wall and a world in my head where I’m stronger and braver than me in my bed.