La Memoria De Una Hija

[river tiger]

“Blood is thicker than water,”
that’s what they always told me
like it was something sacred,
like it could never drown me.

But it was already in the walls,
in the way plates were set before anyone spoke,
in the silence that settled heavy before the noise,
in the sharp crack of respecta
before I even knew what I had done.

My mother’s voice cuts through the kitchen
sharp, familiar,
wrapped in love that never quite felt like love.
“familia es todo.”
The words land on the table between us,
next to untouched plates and everything I can’t say.
I nod.
Of course I do.
I always do.
Because this is what I was taught
la sangre primero,
as if love and loyalty were the same thing.
As if love wasn’t something that could choke you quiet,
That could press a hand over your mouth and call it protection.

I made a home out of shrinking.
Hid myself into places where I wouldn't be seen,
Wouldn't be heard,
I learned to disappear so well it started to look like obedience.

I called it love because no one ever gave me another word for it.

But love shouldn’t feel like suffocating in a body that’s meant to be yours.
It shouldn’t taste like guilt, like iron, like words left to rot behind my teeth.

My fingers curl into my palms under the table,
nails pressing crescents into the skin
like I need proof my body still belongs to me.

But their voices fill the room,
Crawling into my chest to make a home where I used to be.

Telling me who I am,
who I owe,
who I belong to.

Stay.
Aguántate.

Bend until you don’t break and if you do,
Do it quietly,
Love them louder than they hurt you
And most importantly, don't forget where you come from.

And God
I don’t want to forget.
That’s the thing.

I don’t want to lose
the way laughter used to sound
before it turned sharp,
Before it started cutting.

I don’t want to unlearn
The softness I know is buried in them somewhere.
I don’t want to choose.

But I already have, haven’t I?

How do I walk away from everything I’ve ever known?
What does that make me?
A daughter if I stay?
A ghost if I leave?

Somewhere else
not here,
not at this table
there are people
who don’t raise their voices to be heard,
who don’t make love feel like something I have to earn.

They hand it to me freely,
like it was always mine.
They say my name and it doesn’t feel heavy.
It feels like breathing.

And suddenly I am split in two
one version of me
sitting at this table,
nodding, shrinking, staying,

and another
standing at the door,
hand hovering over the knob,
terrified
because leaving means
I might lose them,
but staying means
I lose myself.

If blood is thicker than water,
then why does it feel like I can finally breathe
when I am nowhere near it?

My mother is still talking.
The plates are still full.
The room is still watching.

And my heart,
traitor,
won’t stay quiet this time.

This isn’t love.

The words sit in my throat,
burning,
begging to be spoken,
begging to break everything.

Because what is love
if it asks me to disappear?

And what is family
if I only find safety
in the arms of strangers
who chose me
when they didn’t have to?

So tell me,
when I finally stand,
when the chair scrapes too loud against the tile,
when every eye turns and I become the disappointment they always warned me not to be,
do I stay and keep the family that made me,
or do I leave and choose the one that lets me live?

And still I fold myself smaller,
Tuck myself into the corners of my own chest,
because leaving is guilt,
And staying is breaking,
And both taste like iron in my mouth.