Every part of me

As a child

When I was small,
my father's hands learned my body
before tenderness ever did.
Bruises came easier than comfort,
for reasons so small
I stopped asking why.

When someone asked if it hurt,
I learned to smile.
Pain becomes ordinary
when it starts before language.

He said he hit us because he loved us.
Love, he said,
needed force.
I believed him—
children believe whatever keeps them breathing.

So I grew into women's clothes
with a child's understanding of love.
I stayed when men struck me,
when lies were constant,
when fear was dressed as affection.
I mistook control for care,
violence for devotion.

I learned how to endure
before I learned how to leave.

Eventually, I taught myself defense—
how to brace,
how to disappear,
how to survive without screaming.
Walking away became my quiet rebellion.

Now younger girls look at me
like I am unbreakable,
like nothing ever touched me.
They think I don't bleed,
that I never bend.

I wish they knew
how young I was
when pain first knew my name.
How much effort it takes
to keep my past
from showing on my skin.

I hide the truth carefully—
that strength was never natural to me.
It was built
on a small, frightened girl
who learned too early
what hands could do.