Listening Experience

I once saw the world

from my father’s height,

safe in his shoulders,

wrapped in his light.

But the ground came fast,

the sky grew tall,

and I learned the weight

of being small.

So little.

So small.

That is what they wanted

me to be.

They tried to fold my edges in,

trim my strength,

dim my wins.

They said, “Grace is quiet.

Stand behind.”

But I was fire

by design.

They narrowed and trimmed my dreams

to fit their walls,

but walls don’t hold

a rising call.

I bent for a while,

wounded and bruised.

But I would not break.

I refused.

I am not little anymore.

Not that girl thrown

onto the classroom floor.

Not the silence behind the door.

I walk without the fear

I carried before.

You can try to close me in,

but I have found my voice within.

What was torn did not define

me.

It developed

a strong

steel

spine.

There are scars

that do not show.

There are truths

that children know

before the world

will say them out loud.

There are rooms

that still feel cold.

There are memories

that still unfold.

But they no longer

own me now.

I believe her.

The girl I was.

I stand beside her

because:

no one should carry

that weight alone.

If I could lift her

like before,

place her high

so she could see more,

I would tell her this:

“You are not little anymore.

You are stronger than before.

You survived what shook your core.

You are rising, evermore.”

They could not keep you small.

They could not take it all.

You are standing.

You are whole.

And what was torn

has made you tall.

On my shoulders now she stands.

The girl I was

now holds my hand.

We are not little.

We are not small.

We thrive together.

We stand tall.