There is a house at the end of the street; lathered in hues of blue and gold. A swing set hangs from the mango tree in the courtyard. An old woman sits on the veranda, drinking tea and telling the beads of her rosary. Her face is vacant, inexpressive, unrecognizable.

Whenever I look in the mirror, I see her. I see the despair in her eyes. Puffy eyes from the nights she stayed up crying, begging for the moment her efforts would mean something. The moment it would be enough; the moment she would be enough.

When you are subject to environments of abuse, physically or emotionally; you tend to minimize it to cope. Confusion, doubt, self-blame.

“Ganito ang dapat. Hayaan mo na.”

When I look in the mirror, I see her. A wretched piece of me staring right back.

I see my mother.

I look nothing like my mother.

I look exactly like my mother.

I am nothing like my mother

I am everything like my mother.

Sana mapatawad nyo ako.

The only memory I have of my father was his rage jealousy insecurity. I remember nothing about my father. Isolation, expectations, damaged self-worth.

“Ganito ang dapat. Hayaan mo na.”

I am nothing like my mother

I am everything like my mother.

I don't want to be like you.

I don't want to end up like you.

You are all I might be.

I wish you were stronger

I wish I was stronger.

I wish I was strong enough

I will never be enough.

You wanted to build a home inside a broken house that you forgot

its foundations were weak fragile broken.

I am nothing like my mother

I am everything like my mother.

The grass is now a mixture of grey and brown. The mango tree that once stood in the courtyard was cut down a week ago, only a stump remains; the roots will decompose eventually. The house stands alone, the paint on the wall slowly fading to grey. Numb, empty, lost. Like the love you swam and drowned towards.

A child returns to the house that built her

Numb, empty, lost

Staring at the endless void

She never walks into the house

Sana mapatawad nyo ako.

An old woman roams the halls of the house, telling the beads of her rosary, praying for the sound of melodies, magic and family. Her face remains vacant, inexpressive, unrecognizable. She remains the ghost of a house where love seeped out into the rivers from the cracks in the walls.

I am nothing like my mother

I am everything like my mother.

I am everything I claim to hate about my mother. I resent myself. I resent my mother. I resent my father. I wish my heart didn’t burn with hatred.  I resent this notion of me you invented and expect me to conform to. I resent this notion of myself you’ve allowed me to become-that I’ve allowed myself to become.

 “Ganito ang dapat. Hayaan mo na.”

The child gets back into her car and drives away.  Her face vacant, inexpressive, unrecognizable. Maybe one day she’ll return. Maybe she’ll burn the house down with the hatred that’s been burning in her heart for far too long. Or maybe she’ll come back with love. And maybe the sound of melodies, magic and family would resonate from the walls of the house. The sound of love and belonging. But for now, the house at the end of the street remains as it was. Numb, empty, lost.