BlindSighted
I step on wood once I get into the house,
constant creaking, constant tears,
hands covering ears.
I’m the problem.
But no — I can’t say that,
because they didn’t actually mean it… right?
“Clean the room, you’re so messy.”
“You have nothing to be sad about.”
“Bitch.”
Yet when I defend myself,
I slowly get told it was all my fault
because I roared back
at the sudden howls thrown first at me.
It’s my fault she raised her voice.
It’s my fault she called me fat.
All because
I should know how she acts.
Yet no one is there
when I ask a simple question
and suddenly get called a name.
No one is there
when I make her mad
and she throws her rage.
But I should know how she acts.
“This is normal sibling behavior.”
“You have to talk to her.”
“She’s your sister.”
So I tell myself
if I bite back,
then I will become the villain myself.
So I stay silent,
not just hiding in silence yet silenced in other ways through my mother.
Thinking to myself:
If insults and violence
are considered fine behavior,
then how come my voice —
and the way I speak —
are treated like danger?
I defend myself.
“I’m going to take away your phone.”
I tell my mom what the wolf has done,
yet somehow she’s still the loved one.
“You should know how she is.”
“But do you realize how violent she gets?”
“Do you realize she could’ve stopped instead?”
All I get is:
“But you are messy, lil.”
“But you do start with her, lil.”
So maybe I am the problem —
not because I don’t know how she is,
but because I’m the only one roaring
just to hear echoes soaring
right back to me
when I’m begging to be seen.
And maybe they were never echoes at all.
Maybe the howling I heard
from my sister
became the same voice
living inside my head.
Because instead of being told otherwise,
I’m only fed
the same cruel words
I already tell myself instead.