Some things don’t need to be said.
Or—they’ve already been said enough, in therapy, behind closed doors, in my own head.
This song is all you really need to know.
he had rules i had eyes watched him speak watched her comply no tears aloud no space to shake just broken people in their place the patriarchy ran wild in that house we called it normal we called it love but it felt like silence it felt like dust i lit up outside words came easy but at that door they left me school was air books were light home was tiptoe home was tight the patriarchy ran wild in that house we called it normal we called it love but it felt like silence it felt like dust don’t be loud don’t take space don’t ask why just behave i didn’t cry i didn’t scream i just watched and learned how not to be seen
✶ This essay is part of From the Beginning, a personal series built from my diaries—one memory at a time. You’re reading 1998. Each piece revisits the girl I was, the world I came from, and the details I didn’t know I was already saving.
Next…
The girl who read the whole library
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The town library was a big room on the second floor of the town hall—the same building where the mayor governed and official papers were stamped into being.
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