Some days I open my mouth and my mother comes out. Each word is a riot. I find myself slipping into her anger with so much ease it shocks me sometimes. The world is burning and everyone is waiting for her to put out her flames with her tears because her pain is used to heal everyone else.

I have inherited the rage that comes with being a safe haven for visitors who leave without cleaning up their mess. My mother didn't invent pain but my God, does she wear it well. My mother doesnt flinch as she pulls out the knives in her back and rinses off the blood to forget there was ever a time she was vulnerable to the wrong people.

My mother gives me heirlooms like backbone and strength, and hand-me-down trauma, because I come from a long line of women who bleed on command, and cry only when everyone else is asleep.

An eon ago; I broke this rule when I rushed back home and bawled in my mother's lap because I gave my name to a boy and he returned it broken and damaged and bruised. My mother stroked my hair and laughed softly when I told her that the pain was overwhelming. "My child," she said "sadly this won't be the last time you cry in my arms."