A letter from your alienated child...

The secret they hide... every single day.

They think I forgot, but I didn't.

I remember the exact smell of your perfume from when I was little. It smelled like wet wood mixed with the icy mints you always chewed while driving. I kept your car air freshener -- the one shaped like a tree -- until it stopped smelling like anything at all. When the yelling got bad, I'd sneak upstairs, hold it in my hand, and try to find your scent one more time. They threw it away last week. They said it was "old crap" and that I shouldn't keep it. I didn't cry but the sadness sat in my chest for weeks.

My love for you is my most secret thing.

I hide it better than my best-hidden toy. I have to; if they find it, I'm in trouble. Their voice gets hard: "After all I've done for you, you're thinking about them?"

So I split myself in two. On one side, I keep all the good memories with you. On the other, I file away the list of Bad Things (they say) You Did. That's the side I have to stare at when I'm with them. My face must be emotionless; I've practiced it many times.

Yesterday, you texted "I love you". My heart leaped -- a happy jump -- but then my stomach dropped because they were right there, watching. I deleted it fast, rolled my eyes and used that flat voice that isn't mine. "Ugh. Again?" Each time I speak this way, I snuff out the little light between us. But I have to do it, or I'm in trouble here.

I am a traitor. Every single day.

If I smile at your joke, I betray them. If I agree with their hate, I betray you. If I stay quiet to keep the peace, I betray myself. There is no right move; I am stuck in guilt and shame. I'm playing a game I hate, where the rules change every second and both sides think I'm on the other team.

They tell stories about you. Nasty things over and over, with details, until my real memories fade and the monster they describe is all that's left.

Did you really forget me? Are you actually that selfish?

I don't know anymore. My own mind feels like a lie.

Everything you do gets turned against you: if you're late, you don't care; if you're early, you are just showing off, buying my affection.

Who are you, truly?

I am so angry at you.

Mostly because I can't be angry at them. That feels dangerous. Somehow, I know you'd still forgive me; it feels safer. There's so much poison inside me, and it has to go somewhere, or else it will consume me. You get the worst of me because you're the only one who won't punish me for it.

Please forgive me.

Sometimes, when it's really bad, I imagine I have a remote control. I press pause on myself. I let my mouth say the things I'm supposed to say. I let my legs take me away from you and my entire body go stiff when you hug me. I float somewhere else, so I don't have to feel the hurt I'm causing. But the real me remembers; hides under the bed and cries the tears I'm not allowed to shed. The real me is small and scared.

Please, don't be angry at me. Even when I look at you like you're nothing. Even when I say "I don't want to see you ever again". Even when I break your heart right in front of you. That's not me. That's the person I made to survive your absence. The strings around me are pulled so tight I'm choking.

I'm just a child falling with no safety net.

Don't walk away. Be there to catch me when the war ends.

I love you.

Thanks for reading,

Sienna.

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