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.