Mother.

I’m so glad you never spoke about “people like me” when I was little.
When I was a little girl, your little girl, I was quiet.
 Just like I was supposed to be.
 When I spoke up, it was a shock, yet I was still told to keep my mouth shut.
I wasn’t allowed to play with the things that were for boys, I wasn’t allowed to play with the boys.
I wasn’t allowed to think or be like the boys, and there was somewhere in me that knew
 I wasn’t supposed to like girls the way the boys did either.
I also knew I wasn’t supposed to fight fire with fire.
 I was told not to, and when it wasn’t spoken in words it was said with a simple side glance, raise of the eyebrow, and purse of the lips.
Instead of throwing back the flames that blistered my own skin, I was supposed to smile and swallow every flame they threw at me.
 It might not leave me with a voice or heart to speak, but at least I would be a calm, pretty girl.
 Just like you wanted me to be.
When I didn’t want to try to be pretty and perfect anymore, I was shut down.
Down like my own finger constantly and unsuccessfully in my throat,
 down like the way I broke because to dad I wasn’t good enough just like the girls and boys at my school that knew as much as I did that I wasn’t quite like all of them,
 down like the comforters I’d wrap myself in at night so no one would hear me scream about how much I hated myself,
 down like the spirals I fell into where I could hardly get out of bed and you blamed it on me,
 down like the command given to a dog, something I’ve always found myself treated like
because there’s a bull’s-eye on my back telling them I am their target to aim perfectly sharpened lines at, 
and when they didn’t work even sharper insults.
 But I could never bark back.
 I’ve been mute since I was born.
 No one wanted a pup that got too vocal.
 I kicked myself time after time all because everyone else had.
I was supposed to be pretty, I was supposed to be a quiet girl. I was told I should look and dress more like a doll, more like Barbie.
 I was told I should talk about half as much and often and she is even capable of.
 No girl has a voice that she dare uses if it isn’t being used to please others.
 I have spent my entire life pleasing others, so what else was I supposed to do when I was no longer “skinny mini” and was told I needed to stop gaining so much weight other than work out until I passed out and eat nothing more than a few crackers a day?
 I just wanted you to be happy.
Maybe if you spoke more about people like me when I was impressionable like the clay I used to play with I wouldn’t be here.
 Maybe you telling me who I could and couldn’t be was your subtle ways of speaking of people like me.
Maybe you knew all along that I couldn’t be your perfect daughter and you just wanted to lie to yourself and pretend I could be.
 Maybe you still know I won’t and cannot be.
Maybe if I never listened to you when you started, I would be happy on my own.
Maybe if I listened to you now, I’d feel more at home in clouds of smoke in lonely night skies, because on the off chance that you know who I’ve always been you don’t care about the slivers of glass I find in my skin from the stars you shot down when talking about how “what” I am is a sin.
And father, *******.
I won’t ever be able to look at the sky the same way without thinking of you and the way you held me up on your shoulders and made up stupid constellations that will never exist. 
I only believe in what can be proven. 
I can prove that I was never good enough for you.
 My grades were too low, my voice too quiet, my tongue too sharp, I took up too much space that was supposed to belong to you. I’m sorry for existing on your property.
 I did not let you push me around the way you did to my mother. I gave you chances in ways a daughter shouldn’t have to give a father. You treated me in ways a father should never treat a daughter.