I knew how to be silent. How to hold my tongue and close my eyes, and just wait until it was over. I learned how to be as silent as midnight until their words sunk into my ocean of self-doubt and drove ripples towards the surface I had learned how to keep as clean as morning

I learned how to feel like the smallest piece of life left on this earth, invisible from the skies that only I couldn't reach. I learned to curl up, contain myself, and remain as small as life would make me.  I learned to be everything small: small words, small dreams, small person.

I learned to hate. Hate everyone. Hate everything. Hate myself.

And then he said I was beautiful and I told him that couldn't be.
Because I never learned how to be.