to the man who gave me the tools, but not the manual.

the math of us is simple: you matured with age. i matured with pain. you watched the clock, while i watched my back. thank you for teaching me how to be a better man, even though i’m a woman. you taught me how to stand tall in a room that wanted me small and how to keep my guard up when the world got loud. it’s a heavy kind of strength to carry, a masculine armor forged in a girl’s heart. maybe I’ll never understand why the lessons had to be so broken and maybe someday i’ll finally stop digging through the dirt of our past looking for answers that aren't there.

you grew into your skin because the years allowed it; i had to outgrow mine just to survive the season. you handed me the tools to fight, but you never showed me how to put my weapons down. you gave me the blueprint of a man, then wondered why i never learned how to trust one. 

i’m the son you never had and i’m not the daughter you expected. i am the result of everything you refused to face in yourself. your anger became my silence. so here i am, a daughter with the calloused hands of the son you wanted. i’m learning to soften the edges you sharpened. i’m not searching for your approval anymore. i’m busy building a version that doesn't require me to be hollow. i’m finally exhaling the breath i’ve been holding since i was eleven. i used to think i was a reflection of everything, but i realized i’m actually the echo of your silence.