They say one must never feed a stray cat, or it will never leave. Silence is a stray cat, and in my family, feeding strays is a tradition. A hand-me-down worn out version of loyalty passed through generations. I have been outgrowing it, one poem at a time.
We misuse words in our family, each one is always a metaphor for something. Words as bandages, apologies as amnesia, people as mirrors, nothing is ever as it seems.
You will listen to conversations about you and your heart will beg for an introduction. You will wear depression like old panties tearing at the seams, something to be ashamed of. And when they speak of happiness, you will understand that it is based on an average statistic.
Your mother will raise you to be a wife, marriage will be another metaphor for silence, and you will vow to speak often by choosing yourself. She will tell you to dress modestly and sit with your legs closed. You will learn that clothes are metaphors for respect, and sometimes your mothers use the words lips and legs interchangeably.