“I used to think I was different.
But I trace her storms in the way I love
always bracing for ruin,
always sleeping with the lights off,
as if that’s how you keep the house from burning.
I started having dreams in her accent.
Started pausing before I spoke, like her.
Started carrying umbrellas even when the sky looked clear.
I mistook her quiet for peace.
It was survival.
A hush that had teeth.
Now, when I cry, it rains in my daughter’s room.
The wallpaper peels in the same corner it did in mine.”