My mother doesn’t know that I was the one who broke the kitchen faucet in a fit of anger, I got splashed by a table spoon.
My mother doesn’t know that I hid my period from her for four months because I was afraid she’d be upset that I had injured myself, on the inside.
My mother doesn’t know that somebody touched me in my sleep when I was 7 and she’ll never know because I want to believe dreams can be that vivid.
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My mother doesn’t know that I take the long way home when there are a group men standing on my block, I can feel their eyes caressing me.
My mother doesn’t know that I was sexually assaulted by a stranger on a bus ride home when I was 14, I ran the rest of the way.
My mother doesn’t know that I started searching for love in all the wrong places, I was 13 and he was 33.
My mother doesn’t know that my first love showed me everything but love, it took me 2.5 years.
My mother doesn’t know that I was sexually assaulted in 11th grade, I saw him everyday until he graduated.
My mother doesn’t know that at that point suicide had played on my mind like reruns of sitcoms at 3am.
My mother doesn’t know that if she had walked into the kitchen a minute later, their would’ve been more to clean than dishes.
My mother doesn’t know that I eat until I’m sick, my ribs still protrude.
My mother doesn’t know that I double take in the mirror, the heart eyes begs for my pardon..
My mother doesn’t know that I feel like I’m on a conveyor belt all the time, going through the motions, I’m getting motion sickness. The vomit sits in my throat, I can’t make it to the bathroom so you all will see the shit I’ve been stomaching on the inside.
My mother doesn’t know that I have nightmares about my assaults, my partner noticed that I shake in my sleep.
My mother doesn’t know that my anxiety keeps me on the sidelines while everybody makes their touchdowns.
My mother doesn’t know that my anxiety has tainted my monogamous relationships because three is now a crowd because when I’m on top of him, my anxiety is choking me and when my face is down and ass is up, my anxiety is eating me out.
My mother doesn’t know that my anxiety keeps me crouched down, its bad on my knees.
My mother doesn’t know that my anxiety make my words fall from my mouth like gravel but my voice shakes this room without amplification.
My mother doesn’t know that the thought of her keeps me going on days when I’m drained, she’s the charger in my back pack, to think I need her more than ever for things she will never, ever know.
