You Didn't.

You  didn’t teach me how to change a tire.

She did.

You didn’t teach me how to use a scroll saw.

Someone else’s dad showed me that.

You didn’t teach me basic electric work —

He did that too.

You didn’t teach me how to replace an alternator.

I figured it out with a friend sitting in the engine block and using a Bic lighter to heat shrink the tubes.

You didn’t teach me how to cook.

I burned and under seasoned things until I didn’t.

You didn’t teach me how to drive.

She white-knuckled the passenger seat and prayed I wouldn’t hit the bicyclist on the bridge.

You didn’t teach me how to fight —

But I did.

With my back against a wall, fists clenched, teeth gritted,

I learned how to stand when no one came running.

You didn’t teach me how to load a gun.

Someone else’s dad, again.

And I hit the mark with every pull of the trigger.

You didn’t teach me plumbing —

I did, when the shitty apartment fixtures had run their course and I wasn't going to wait for you or the shifty maintenance guy.

You didn’t teach me how to care deeply about people.

I just did, because someone had to.

You didn’t teach me how to treat a hangover.

His grandma did, with black tea and no judgment.

You didn’t teach me how to tailor my own clothes —

So I bled my fingers learning the curve of a needle.

You didn’t teach me how to track animals in the wild.

I learned to be the quiet thing in the woods,

waiting, watching, surviving.

You didn’t teach me how to cauterize this wound.

I seared it shut myself.

You didn’t teach me how to deal with you.

No one could.

Why didn't you teach me?

You didn’t teach me.

You didn’t.

But I learned.

Oh, how I learned.

Through every silence, every absence, every void you left.

You became the lesson.

I became the teacher.

And now?

Now I know everything I never want to be.