You were supposed to teach me how to make my coffee
so that it was sweet enough,
and how to stand up straight and look proud.
How to keep my room clean
and not procrastinate my homework.
How to tell the difference between a guy who loves me
and one who wants my body.

But mostly, aren't moms supposed to teach how to love?

All you taught me was how to cry so no one could hear,
and how to practice pain on myself
so that when my sister used me as her punching bag
I could show her that it didn't hurt.
How to turn my music up so loud I couldn't hear your insults.
How to fake a smile so that you don't get the satisfaction
of knowing you ******* me up.
And you never taught me how to forgive. So I don't.

I think of you every time I go to the movies because you wanted to take me there so bad but I was scared because I thought you would force me to kiss you in the dark again and I think of you when I wear my red Doctor Who shirt because you and your mom said you loved it the first time we hung out and I think of you when I pass the kids in the hallway who used to tease us because I remember you losing your temper and I think of you when I watch Once Upon a Time on my couch because that's where we first held hands and I think of you when I pass by your house because you invited me there so many times but I didn't go because I knew I wouldn't be able to say no and I think of you when I call myself stupid because you'd always say there's a difference between acting careless and being dumb and that what I thought I was was wrong and I think of you when I pass the spot in the hallway where my tears were words but only I could understand them where I had my best friend say goodbye and we hugged for the very last time and I don't know if it was a mistake
but even though you're three months gone, *you still make me think in run-on's.

"Hey, how are you?"
you said, sitting at the table,
with your arms around her.