We were the children of fathers who never learned how to love. Of mothers that only spoke in shouting. We found ourselves somehow older than the people who were supposed to take care of us; found that we were mature beyond our years. We knew to just let arguments go because they would only lead to trouble, we accepted responsibility, we supplied the nurture that was missing.

We would give anything to fill up the absence. We turned ourselves into perfect kids. We learned to give more than we took, to hide our problems under too many layers. How to box up our issues until they were nothing more than nightmares, how to take care of others so that at least someone would love us, even if we weren’t all there.

Later, when we were grown up, we found ourselves roller coasters, unable to speak about our problems unless we were shooting towards the ground, huge outbursts of pressure that made us feel worse rather than better. We couldn’t trust others to love us.

A generation of children that know better but can’t stop. Don’t mean to be jealous but are honestly just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Who heard “I love you” from the same people who did not. Who grew up knowing not to feel secure in happiness, not to want. Who love different, who love insecure, but who love with everything they got.

We were trained to fit better. To dumb down, slim down, shut up. To undo our personal catastrophes in quiet, with a delicate touch. To agree, to conceed, to cooperate. To flinch when we gave our names. To say everything with a look, to say nothing aloud, to pray for forgiveness rather than ask for permission.

We were trained to pocket the problems, to walk quicker, to drop our throats into whispers when we say what happened to her. We were not trained on how to help her, just how not to become her, a voiceless scream, a crime that belongs to nobody. To fit in by blending, by not being victim, by pretending not to feel weak.

We were trained to eat less where they could see, to collaborate, to look down, lie down, give up. To nurture, to accept responsibility for, to nurse wounds. To deliver the word “no” so delicately it is a leaf that barely breaks the water, to deliver our proudest achievements with a shame and humility that breaks us. To accept that our labor is cheap, that we are a polical debate, that we are not invited to discussions of our worth, of our bodies.

We are taught to sit still, to cross legs, to swallow our fists. We are taught to accept the one girl that fits to the movie. That we, as an audience, are too many, have tastes that are too specific, that we should be content with our romance movies, that we belong to a niche where at the end we see ourselves get married.

We learn to hate pink, resent flowers. Chewing our way out of cages. We take back our kitchens for the knives, we wear high heels to church, we tap long fingers on hardwood. We learn to fix the tire, to play the game anyway, to cut our own castles, to write poems. We learn to use our fists, to not apologize so often. To eventually be abrupt, to be fierce, to be wild and proud of it.

We learn to be witch, to be a sandstorm, to be hellhound. To love to be bitch… ❤