naming the wounds without placing the blame

You taught me polish, posture, a rehearsed smile,

the way a curtain hides a collapsing frame.

I wore the mask so long it felt like skin,

thinking survival meant looking the part.

Your hunger to belong was never fed,

and so you pressed it onto me like duty—

children as mirrors, not as voices.

But I see the fear behind your careful shine.

I name the wounds, but do not curse your hands:

you had no chance to escape the chain you bore.

It broke in me; I will not pass it down.

My children learn that honesty is grace,

and joy does not need costumes to appear.

I honor you, yet celebrate the break.