Do you remember?
Do you remember when you said you wanted to go to the pride parade as much as you wanted to go to a KKK rally?
Because I do.
Do you remember when you told me that people made fun of you and you were normal?
Because I do.
Do you remember when you told me to not tell the other kids because we didn't want to confuse them?
Because I do.
Every word, every remark, every comment that you made hurt more than the blade that I slashed against my own skin.
Hoping that maybe I could carve out the disease, the sin.
Do you remember the first time I told my choosen name and you choose to deadname me.
You tell the therapist that you have no clue why I don't confide in you anymore and I recall every time that you introduced me as your daughter.
The first person to hold me and tell me that everything was going to be fine didn't even share a drop of my blood.
Do you remember all the nights I cried myself to sleep because my skin was pulled too tightly across my bones?
No, of course, you don't. Because by then I had learned that it hurt less to cry silently than to talk to you.
Well, I guess it doesn't matter anymore.
Because if you remember anything than remember this, your son might have forgiven but he will never forget.