When I was growing up, my Momma would tuck me in every night. She would reach down and kiss my cheek, always so gently, as if to avoid any possible harm. And every night, she would hesitate for a moment too long, hovering above me, and walk away to close the door. To leave me in the silence, with only a dull nightlight to caress me.

In school, my teacher always taught us to care for our parents, and to shower them in kisses and “I love yous.” And I wondered what those words meant but I didn’t know how to use a dictionary and when I asked the teacher, she gave me a strange and steady look and sent me to the corner.

When I was growing up, my momma would tuck me in every night. Right before she closed my bedroom door, on lonely evening, I spit out the three words my teacher had me memorize in class. I hoped it might have meant something. Momma told me never to say them again because “Love is conditional” and she would never teach me such lies.

My boyfriend told me he loves me with a diamond necklace and rose petals. I slapped him out of instinct. Momma told me never to get involved with boys like him. I don’t remember any of the boys Momma got involved with. They were always so temporary, so easily disposed. I don’t remember what kissing someone’s lips feels like, but kisses are not only for the mouth.

I looked in the mirror and told myself how beautiful I am, because that’s what my therapist said to do. I punched the mirror out of instinct. “I love you,” I cried. “I love you because Momma never did.” Cracked glass and bloody knuckles never felt so inviting.

You never liked my red crayons, Momma. You never liked my red eyes and you hated my red hearts. You grimaced when I was sunburnt after our trip to Cancun, and you spit back at me when I dyed my hair red. Momma, I never meant to make you cry. Momma, my knuckles hurt. I don’t want to play this game anymore. Momma, please. Please, answer me, Momma. Please tell me things will be alright.

Momma, I love you.
Please, Momma,
love me back.