As the eldest,
you learn to stand straight before you can crawl,
bearing burdens with a spine too soft to hold them.
You grow into steel
not because you want to
but because you were asked to.
They call you strong,
a word that tastes like solitude,
a compliment that feels like cement.
Your hands forget the feel of being held
as they learn to hold everything else.
So when you meet him,
all sharp lines and storming silence,
you think,
this is what I need.
But two swords cannot draw each other close.
They clash, they break,
and the pieces cut you both.
And here you are again,
left with only the echo of your own footsteps
and a heart heavy with its own armor.
Because in the end,
it's not strength that holds you
but softness.
And how could you ever ask for softness
when you never learned how to give it to yourself?
