I was born with hands too small to carry
the weight of love that felt so scary.
A child with dreams and hopeful eyes,
but silence taught me not to rise.
They said, “You’re too much, or not enough,”
and carved their wounds into my rough.
A father’s words, a sister’s shade,
a friend who mocked the mess I made.
I wore their doubts like second skin,
let every voice crawl deep within.
Told I was loud, then far too still—
I bent myself to fit their will.
But even rain begins to clear,
and broken hearts still persevere.
The girl they crushed beneath their doubt
is learning how to climb back out.
I’ve grown because of those who left,
who made me feel alone, bereft.
But every scar they etched in me
has shaped the strength I’ve come to be.
My mother smiled with lips so thin,
hiding all the pain within.
She gave her light, she gave her youth,
and wrapped our world in silent truth.
She buried dreams beneath the floor
so we could stand and ask for more.
But I have learned—her sacrifice
should not repeat in my own life.
I crave a love that lifts, not weighs,
that doesn’t fade on darker days.
A heart that holds me when I fall,
not one that shows up just to stall.
Don’t tell me love should make me ache—
that’s not a vow, that’s just a break.
I want the kind that stays through storms,
not one that waits till I transform.
So here I stand—my hands are free,
no longer chained to who I “should” be.
I love myself, both wrong and right,
and I no longer dim my light.
At the end of each long day,
when all the noise has gone away—
the stars above, the stars in me,
will shine in quiet symmetry.
With or without a lover’s hand,
I rise, I breathe, I heal, I stand.
For I have loved, and I have cried—
but still, I bloom with every tide.
Absolutely stunning.