Father (Is Sleeping)

I’ve gotten used to walking on my tiptoes.

"Be quiet, your father’s sleeping," is a mantra I can never forgive nor forget, and anger swirls in the pit of my stomach and radiates out through my fingertips and toes, propelling silent feet and blaring hands.

Laughter shushed and childish clumsiness knocked right out of me, I was never aloud loud.

"Be quiet, your father’s sleeping," at 4pm, 12pm, 8am, 7pm, it didn’t matter. My feet bowed in compliance, my touch softer, my voice restrained.

Father was used as a threat. Distance was used as punishment. Love was used as a disguise. My whispers dripped with desperation when I had to relay to my friends at sleepovers on friday nights, “Be quiet, my dad is sleeping.” The words felt wrong in my mouth. The words felt wrong in my ears. They left imprints like footprints in my mind, soft but persistent, leaving black little tracks on each and every nerve ending.

Father is wrong. I hear the word father and I do not think of warm hugs and a welcoming presence but rather accusatory tones and excuses so convoluted I’ve actually started to believe them to ease myself.

Now I constantly hear everybody’s footsteps, so much louder than my own, footsteps of confidence, footsteps not silenced, footsteps with childish gaits, unaware of my absence among them.

She slept on the couch constantly, afraid to stir him.
Now I do, craving the company of someone so badly that I sleep on the couch in the hope of contact, the footsteps of others filling the space in my dreams where my own used to be.

Silent in step and tongue, I can now scare even the bravest of souls with a presence bigger than a thrumming solar system.

The threat of father is nothing now, though the mantra has taken its toll. No longer am I a child, rather aged with the soft footsteps of wrinkles and lifetimes of hands over mouths and shushes from across rooms.

I’m tired of painting over elephants.

My spinal cord is shaped sideways, bending over backwards to keep my mouth shut and the consequence is a bloody tongue scarred from me biting it so much, holding back screams and all of the frustration of a lifetime, a lifetime of “Be quiet, your father’s sleeping.”

Shut your godforsaken mouth, he works hard for you and your brother and sister, he provides, he resides, just up the stairs and to the right in a den all his own. He works. He works away, each day of my childhood has holes where he should have been, where he could have been, but instead his place is in his den, all the while I was keeping myself occupied and I tried to be okay but people pried and when I let them inside they said “This is not normal,” and I could only reply, “Be quiet, my dad is sleeping.”

Guilt wracks my bones like you wouldn’t believe. I’m sorry I can’t be quiet, that my voice was always a little too loud and my steps a little too heavy. I’m sorry I can’t appreciate the money and forget what was never there anyways, a gaping hole in our family portrait.

I’m sorry I’m cold and distant to you. I’ve kissed and been kissed but I’ve felt nothing because I see father wherever I go, telling me to silence myself. My stomach flips with the thought. I shut down that faction of myself so long ago my feet can’t recall the right way to walk, my mouth can’t recall the right way to talk, my hands shake in fear as they hold keys between my fingers at night walking alone, untrusting of every father like they’re all trying to shut me up.

Father is the weapon that has hurt me most of all, silence a close second. She tells me that I need to forgive. Forgiveness comes easily but childhood never comes again.

No amount of money can shut me up anymore. You have softened with age but my anger has built like a supernova and now my rage is molten, fresh and hot and ready to leak through excuses piled up like old rocks and stones.

I no longer walk silent. Each day my steps are a little prouder. Each sunrise my voice is a little louder. Each sunset my resolve is a little clearer. Each night another small wall is broken through.

No longer do I hear, “Be quiet, your father’s sleeping,” rather I say, “Be quiet, your daughter’s speaking.”

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I edit the look of my blog whenever you edit my feelings.

tao totally being a sweet cute pie at the airport by chatting and sharing candies with fans today.

this little girl caught his attention, he gave her a lollipop, patted her head, told her that she’s beautiful and reminded her not to forget to attend exo concert in taiwan.