Borrowed Daughter

I could only go so high before my skull crushes against the ceiling.

Once I’ve reached that mountain peak, you look to me as if my journey was so easy, and beneath my skin I know this was the expectation the whole time.

I found I have met myself halfway.

No partner, no children to bear, just a few extra dollars in my pocket.

Before, you used to ask me if I was safe, I said ‘yes’ every time; once I started telling you how unsafe I felt under our little roof, it seemed you had cared less.

And sooner than I anticipated our roof became your roof.

I couldn’t keep fighting for a place in this family, every time I showed up to defend myself I broke what was left of me over and over again, waiting for you to stop hitting me while you screamed, “I love you but...”

you have said it so many times after so many years, I’ve been able to finish the sentence:

“...you feel too much.”

I’ve heard it for so long and it left such a bitter taste in my mouth.

I felt like I was possessed by my emotions; I learned how to distance myself from feelings so well that I float through life numb.

My happiness is so concentrated with way more effort than needed, and though I feel joy it’s so far away; I find myself barely touching it with my finger tips.

Of all I’ve done, I’m most ashamed of this; ashamed of how much of myself I’ve severed from my walking life, how much I’ve chipped away to shape myself into all that you want me to be.

You say I feel too much, I feel enough.

Enough of what I feel, no matter how overwhelming it may be, has been the roadmap I’ve needed to survive.

It’s brought me to this mountain peak and created such a distance between us.

From this distance I can see all the empty bodies I’ve attempted to inhabit just to please you.

The good daughter, the faithful, the graceful, the well-mannered, the talented... and so on...

The body I could not fit into was the tolerant daughter.

I panicked every time I went near her; I couldn’t cohabitate with a body so small and ill-fitting.

She reminded me of all the terrible memories I must forget in order to sleep.

Now, I am a borrowed daughter, painting my grief on the walls of another house; sleeping in a different bed, watching movies on a different tv.

A borrowed daughter, that’s my new identity.

I’m hopeful someday I’ll be able to find a body that fits perfectly.

I’ve had way too many ice cold encounters with my previous fittings.

Every exorcism has stripped a vast part of my spirit from me. It’s resulted in my way of floating through life, like a ghost down a lonely and long dark hall.

I float above the scorned earth, I float past your disappointed expression, I float over the roof that used to be mine and grieve over the household it used to be.

I’ve been smoked out.

I’m not only the borrowed daughter, I’m also the expendable.

There’s nothing tying us together.

I have no children to keep you around, just all the void vessels I’ve cared for too many times, just to have you look my way.

Of all the people I’ve been, of all the faces I’ve shown you, the only memory that lasts is of you turning your back on me; I remember how I wasn’t good enough or even forgiving enough to live inside that house.

Now, I wonder how you talk about me.

Are you still proud? Or am I the disappointment in the family, once again - 25 years running. Does my my name taste like vinegar? Or am I still the sweet little Snow White that runs around barefoot beneath the dying grass.

I’ve gone through the motions of turmoil;

I’ve held a thousand yesterday’s in my arms to carry the proof of neglect and harm.

I remember all the supplements you force fed me, they were filled with shallow encouragements and prayers...

I remember when death and pain came to my side more than you ever had, and they each listened to me wail and let me writhe on my bedroom floor.

Death begged me to live out my life and pain held me while my bruised shoulders slumped to the floor.

I screamed till my throat bled and you told me I was too loud.

You looked at me like I was asking you for salvation, like I was praying to you for a new heart or to be washed cleaned.

I never asked you to quickly grab the crutches so I could stand while I lay there broken.

I asked you to lay with me and watch the clouds move.

I never asked you to use my tears to wash my bleeding heart, I asked you to help me use my tears to water the grass beneath me.

I never asked you to wash my sore and aching feet, I asked you to wait for the grass to grow so my feet would soon know softer ground.

I never asked you to pray for the sun to shine, I asked you to sit with me in the dark of night and marvel at the stars.

Yet, that is another body I cannot possess; a body that craves to be fixed by the hands of her mother.

You cannot fix me, I’m not built that way.

I never wanted you to fix me, I wanted you to listen.

You would say you tried your best, but life wouldn’t be the way it is now.

I wouldn’t feel so invisible or expendable.

I wouldn’t be finger-painting sad faces on my legs and arms, with empty laughter falling out of my mouth.

If scream for you, I know you’ll say I’m too loud.