I searched for you
in warm hands,
in soft eyes,
in more hellos
than goodbyes,
hoping to stitch
what you rarely gave me.
Anyone
to call Mother,
to save me.

I learned to fold myself
smaller,
and smaller.
I became a piece of paper.
Never felt safer,
turning into nothing -
air,
distancing myself
from you,
in despair.

I wore perfection
like my favorite dresses,
hanging.
My mirror knew my emptiness,
twirling, changing.
I thought if I sparkled enough, just right,
you might finally see me,
maybe even
appreciate my creativity.

But you were carrying your own
ghosts of the past,
nowhere to come home.
And I held your silence
like a secret,
thought it was mine to keep.

As a woman myself now,
I see the cracks in your face.
Beneath the pretty bow
and lace -
an unwanted woman,
an unspoken ache.

So I loosen the bow,
and decide, in time -
I will forgive you
because it’s your first time
living, too.

A space once large enough for
my emotions and thoughts,
is now caving in.
It used to hold me- being and body,
in turn I carry resentment.
I am too big,
too strong,
too ambitious,
to stay caged.

You’ve spent years being the ground—
holding everyone’s weight,
catching their falls
while no one noticed
you were crumbling too.
You smile like it's stitched in,
even when your soul
wants to unthread.
You carry laughter
in pockets full of old sadness,
and somehow still give
more than you’ve ever received.
But hear this, quietly—
like a secret you forgot was yours:
You deserve to be the sky.
Not just the roof over others,
but the space to breathe,
to be light,
to thunder if you must,
to stretch without apology.
You are not a background.
You are the whole **** sunrise
someone's waiting to wake up to.