I’m Still Small
I’m Still Small My chest is a locked room with no windows, the air inside keeps running out. My eyes are swollen from holding storms, my lips tremble like prayers I never finish, my head aches from remembering your name too often, too quietly. Who decided I must grow up? Who stole my right to be small? Who wrote “be strong” on my childhood without asking if I was ready? I don’t want to be brave. I just want to be held. Now I wear strength like a borrowed dress it fits, but it doesn’t feel like mine. They call me independent, they call me wise, but inside I am still waiting for a voice that says, “Come here, you’ve done enough.” You don’t know mom’s clothes fit me now. You don’t know I buy things by myself. You don’t know my room is full of dolls because I’m scared of silence. Pink and red everywhere, trying to replace one color I lost: you. I want a photo with you, just one proof you were real. I want your arms to remember my weight. I want to play hide and seek and pretend you ne...
