When I was younger
I thought I’d be wise.
When I was younger
I thought I’d be smart.
When I was younger
I thought I’d be pretty.

I pictured myself in white—
a dress that shimmered,
flowers tucked into my hair,
a train trailing behind me
like a dream made real.

Being a bride—
I thought it would be the most wonderful thing.

But there was no dress.
No veil.
No vows.
Just a heavy bouquet
placed by my side.

The man I trusted—
the one who should have given me away—
was the one I needed saving from.
A monster wrapped in respectability.

Now—
I don’t need a dress.
I don’t need to be a bride.
I don’t need flowers hanging off my arm
to feel whole.

I am me—
that’s all I need to be.
The trauma of him
won’t carry me.

I pushed on.
I did it all.

My younger self thought I’d be wise—
and I really am.