My house is a courtroom,
My kitchen a battlefield.
Anything I say
Can and will be used against me.
Anything they say
Will create a lasting imprint on my mind.
On my body.
It is as if the words are branded into my skin
The second they drop
From my guardian's mouths.
“Immature.”
“Irresponsible.”
“Psychopath.”
I now know how they really see me.
How one mistake can destroy years of love and promises.
Promises to keep me safe, to trust me, to respect me.
Lie shattered on the floor.
They spit the word teenager at me as if it is an insult.
Like it is something I can take back or change.
They tell me to grow up as if I am capable of speeding up time.
Of bidding my childhood farewell.
Maybe I was a teenager.
Maybe I was immature.
But not anymore.
Because realizing who your parents really are
Can age you fast.
The memories branded into my skin
Will be with me forever.
When I leave for college, at my wedding, on my death bed
These unwelcome thoughts will trail me.
The people who raised me, who taught me to ride a unicycle, and taught me to read
Are also the ones who lost trust in me
In the moment it mattered the most.
And that will never change.