Dear Mom,

No, too formal.

Dearest Mom,

Either. It sounds as if I had to tell her something she doesn’t want to hear.

I draft a smile – not lifting the corners of my lips fully – and bite my pen. I am going to tell her something she doesn’t want to hear.

But I better not let her know from the start.

After a second of hesitation, I start to scribble again.

Mommy darling,

What am I? Three years old?

To the woman who gave me birth,

Weird.

Mrs. My Mom,

Failed attempt at humor? Check.

Listen, Mom,

Way too bossy. It would put her in a bad mood before she even starts reading the… tough stuff.

A shiver runs through my body, so I rise to close the window, only to realize that it's already sealed.

The cold can’t be provoking my goosebumps.

Hugging myself, I shoot a glance to the only objects laying on the desk I have just left: my favorite pen, and a fancy piece of paper. Nice stuff to sign a declaration of war.

Not a wanted war, though, but one that is bound to happen, sooner or later.

I slump on my chair, and release some stress with a loud sigh – but still feel like a pressure cooker after its fiftieth minute of boiling.

My mind begs for some music, but I reluctantly deny myself that luxury. I need to finish what I started before looking for comfort in distraction.

For your information,

That. Won’t. Work.

It’s not as if I haven’t given her some hints. She should already know, and it should be easy to confirm her hypothesis; just a smooth, calm interaction between mother and daughter.

That would be nice, if she didn’t live in complete, utter, subconscious denial of anything about that topic.

Ugh. Why is it so-

Faint noises raise between my ears, like my grandma’s old radio post when she turned it on. A little voice whispers something unintelligible, then coughs.

“1, 2. 1, 2, 3, try,” I hear it articulate.

“Hello?”

An outraged silence follows. Then, “You!”

“Me?” I ask, not giving two bucks about the fact that I’m probably going insane.

“Yes, you. I am your conscience.”

“Oh,” I nod, as if this makes the whole thing more normal. “And what do I ought the pleasure of your comp-”

“Shut it!” The voice hisses. “You’re a coward. You should just tell her.”

I reflect on it for a couple of seconds, and end up shaking my head. “I can’t.”

“You’re a chicken! It’s easy.”

I narrow my eyes, defying the bare wall in front of me as if it was the owner of the voice. “Then do it yourself.”

There’s a pause. The voice must be looking for a smart answer. I prepare mine. But the static echoes again, and then nothing.

“Hello?”

It’s just the sound of my voice in my bedroom.

And in front of me, the fancy paper and favorite pen.

I grab the latter, and press it on the former.

Mom,

I am what you would call a bisexu-

I crumple the sheet, and throw it toward my trash bin, missing my shot.

No war declaration for tonight.

Not yet.