The Silence Between Pronouns

I. Then

I called you by your dead name,

The one that makes your shoulders flinch,

Whenever spoken out into the ether,

Not out of malice—

Just an age old habit,

A reflex, I would say

But that alone is its own kind of violence.

A wound I kept on reopening, unaware of its pain

You told me in careful ways,

Easing me into it—not all at once,

But I was selfish,

I kept hearing only what I wanted,

Clinging to the child that I had named,

As if letting go meant choosing silence,

When I should have offered alliance

II. Now

I carry your silence like a bruise,

Deep-purples, reds, and blues—slow to fade,

Not visible to the naked eye,

But aching when pressed.

When I say I will always love you no matter what

I wonder if you still hear a clause:

Even though

And maybe that doubt is proof that I deserve.

I practice your name over and over like a penance,

Cautious and careful on my tongue,

Syllables breaking

Through years of resistance.

I see now

How long you stood in the doorway ,

Waiting for me to let the old you go .

III. Tomorrow

I won’t rewrite history with prettier words,

But I promise I will walk with you one step at a time.

I won’t ask for your forgiveness like a prize,

Just a seat at the table that you built without me.

I will get your pronouns right,

I will speak your truth when others choke,

and carry that truth with both hands into the light.

Because repair is not a speech—it is a practice

I will not flinch at who you are becoming,

Nor will I mourn the name that I outgrew,

I will learn to love in your language,

Even when my mouth stumbles,

Even when it hurts,

You are not my lesson—you are my child,

And I am still becoming someone worthy of your light.