I was born feet first into duty,
swaddled not in warmth, but in weight.
A child in years, a mother in practice,
learning love through give, not take.
I tied my own laces, braided my own hair,
then turned to the little hands reaching for mine.
Their cries, their hunger, their sleepless nights—
became the rhythm of my borrowed time.
I mothered the mother who forgot how to be,
and steadied the father too tired to try.
I bit back the hurt, swallowed the longing,
grew roots in the cracks where childhood died.
They call me strong—how sweet, how cruel,
as if I had a choice in the script I was given.
Strength is just softness turned into armor,
a childhood spent, but never really lived in.
Yet still, I stand, steady and tall,
a lighthouse built from weathered stone.
No one taught me how to be held,
only how to hold.
YOU ARE READING
ache & after
PoetryAche & After is a poetry collection about emotional aftermath. It explores love that bruises, loss that lingers, trauma that reshapes, and the slow, imperfect process of healing. Written through moments of grief, longing, survival, and self-discover...
