All That Crying.

I wonder if my mother knows how badly I want to speak like her — like everyone around me. My brain holds all the words. I can hear them clearly in my head, but my mouth and tongue won’t translate them into sounds others understand.

They call it gibberish. Nonsensical vocalizations.

So I cry — because my tears are the only language they seem to respond to.

But lately, even my crying draws anger, frustration, and piercing stares.
And then comes the same response: my mother sends me outside. Or to my room. Or away from her. Away — with all my crying.

All my crying. Alone.

What am I supposed to do now, when home is not a safe space for my tears?