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Mom, do you see me?
Do you see when my eyes fill with tears over things I cannot tell you? Things that hurt me more than they will ever hurt you, and yet, I am the one who worries?
Or do you only see how I stay quiet while accepting and nodding to everything you tell me?
Do you see the multiple voices in my head telling me to give up on everything, to abandon everything, to abandon myself, while I fight for a way to control myself and not do it?
Or do you only see how I walk out of my room with short hair, thinking it is an act of rebellion?
Do you see how when I feel a tightness in my chest and feel like throwing up, I take refuge in my bass to make a dull noise until it stops hurting?
Or do you only see a young adult wasting their life on music and alcohol?
Did you see the countless sleepless nights I spent awake? Nights analyzing myself, nights despising myself, nights trying to understand myself?
Or did you only see how I came into your room to tell you that my name was now Ryo?
Do you see me today, after the months and years of silence that froze our house after that conversation?
Or do you only see the ghost of the person you wanted me to be, ignoring the stranger sitting across from you at the table?
Did you see the years I felt pressured? Pressured to fit into a square mold, while I am a star that is about to explode if you force it into that small cubicle?
Or did you only see how I grabbed my bass and walked out of the house, slamming the door while screaming at you?
You didn't see the void you left behind, because to you, I am the void.
Do you see how I walk through the streets looking to disappear into the crowd, wishing that the noise of the city would bury the echo of your silence?
Or do you only see someone running away from their responsibilities?
Look at me one last time, Mom. Try.
Take off the blindfold of expectations and look at the foreign body you condemn me to live in every time you call me by that name that no longer belongs to me.
Look at the invisible scars of a war I fight alone, in a dark hotel room, where the only truce is the weight of four metal strings upon my fingers.
But I know you won't.
It's easier to look away. It's easier to think that I am broken, that I am a factory defect. That it's a phase that will be cured when I mature and accept the destiny you wrote for me before I was born.
In the end, it doesn't matter if you see me or not. I've spent so much time trying to scream to you who I am, that I've run out of voice. And now, the only thing left in this silence is the weight of knowing that I will never be enough to save the memory of the daughter you lost.
So, keep closing your eyes. Keep pretending that the person you wanted is still there, trapped beneath my skin.