I have never heard my mother apologize.
We lived without the warning lightning brings of thunder,
each evening waiting, wondering,
who would fall victim to her rage tonight?

The piercing shriek of my mother bursts through the door,
shattering the precarious silence,
for this house wears anger
like a second skin.

The walls resume their dance to the beat
of my mother's fists.
But better wood than flesh,
better broken glass than broken teeth.

Instinct drove my body shrinking against the wall,
desperately trying to fade into the safety of shadow
before my mind could even register her screams.
My brother had returned.

I can still hear the accusations hurled at him in greeting,
because he didn't tell her he was back.
Seeking to surprise us, he had come home that night,
only to be welcomed with sneers and blame.

He snapped.

My brother's tongue joined the fray,
edged with the venom from years of bottled rage
and the familiar symphony of fury
resonated between these trailer house walls.

I flinch, feeling the front door bury itself in the plaster,
the indignant screech of the screen door following close behind.
Wide-eyed, vision blurred with unshed tears and my chest tight with fear,
I listened.

Sharp in its conviction,
my brother's voice cut through the din
as he gave our mother one last chance.
"If I walk out this door, I'm never coming back."

In harmony with the vibrations of this cracked foundation,
my brother's words still echo in my memory
and I grieve in the silence.

The deepest depths of our lungs
have been deprived of oxygen
for so long
that we cannot remember what is like
to breathe,
deeply and unhindered by
this binder
as the constriction threatens to
collapse the cavity of our chest.

Willingly, we trade our breath
for the exquisite, piercing pain
that we quickly come to associate with
peace of mind
and freedom
because it means the reflection of our silhouette
finally matches the physique our
dysphoria has been telling us
we should have had
our whole lives.

In time, this addiction festers and
we bind longer and more often as
our bodies grow weaker and
our minds more chaotic until,
despite the destruction,
we cannot bear to take them off
and face the truth
written in our curves.

The pain is at one with us now.
We endure, if only to be able to
run our hands longingly down
our flattened chests
as we wait, hoping that,
one day,
we will finally be able to learn
what it is like to
breathe again.

But don't know how to quantify
What happened,
This poem is for you.

Remember that just because your mouth cannot cradle
The word ****
Between clenched teeth like you know it should,
Doesn't invalidate what happened to you.

I didn't - don't,
Know how to describe
What happened
To me either.
And while I know my friends had good intentions
When they insisted that, yes,
It was ****,
And that, no,
It was not my fault,
It feels as if they are shoving
These words into my lungs,
Bile burns the back of my throat and
I can't breathe.

The next morning,
My mind refused to admit
What my body knew and
My stomach threatened to desert me as
My voice had deserted me
The night before, and
A tremor tunneled it's way into
My bones, to make a home
Beneath my skin like he did.
It hasn't stopped yet,
I fear it never will.

For days afterwards,
I lied awake, trying in vain
To erase the memory
Of his touch,
Focusing on tracing the cracks
On the ceiling instead of the
Trails his hands etched
Into my skin.

To even think of it
As ****
Is to give it a name, to
Make it tangible and real when
I just want to forget.
But when we refuse to name
Our reality, we are giving it
More power than it deserves,
And I am tired of being afraid
Of my own tongue.

But I still can't call it ****,
Not yet,
And that's okay for right now
Because, one day,
I will find the strength
To say his name.