Stunted.

I try not to think about
that year too often.

If I had been slightly
younger, you could have
taken everything away,
the whispers of "conversion
therapy" more than a
meager after-dinner talk.

I'll never forget how you
had to be reminded
of my humanity.

I try to overwrite all the
other years too,
when legalities could have
meant forcing me into a
ward of white coats and
heavy sleeping pills
I couldn't not take.

You had the power to
wreck my womanhood
if I so much as batted
my eyelashes too fast.

No wonder I'm hesitant
to share even the dinner
dishes with you.

And everyone still acts
like nothing happened.
The finest silverware
never broke, the tablecloths
never tore at the seam,
so no one looks closer at
the smudges on everything else.

I'm led to believe
that I was never in danger,

that it was my fault for
holding emotions hostage,

that you were only doing
what you thought was best,

and it's my problem if I can't
grow up and move on.