They say childhood is a garden—
but mine was a graveyard with a swing set.
Lullabies sounded like sirens,
and bedtime stories had monsters with familiar voices.
Not under the bed—
in the hallway,
in the mirror,
in me.
I was born with glass bones,
but told to run marathons of silence.
Smiled through dinner plates thrown like frisbees,
learned how to count lies instead of sheep.
They dressed wounds with "It wasn't that bad,"
stitched scars with "You're just too sensitive."
And I—
I learned to fold pain into paper cranes,
sent them flying through locked windows
hoping someone would read the creases.
I grew up fluent in apology,
said sorry when I cried,
sorry when I broke,
sorry for existing too loudly
in a house that worshipped quiet.
They taught me love with conditions:
Be still. Be good. Be invisible.
And I wore obedience like a straightjacket,
mistook fear for family.
But here's the plot twist—
the girl who swallowed fire learned to breathe it.
The hands that trembled now write truth with rage.
Every cracked bone rebuilt into wings,
every tear a rebellion.
I am not the hurt.
I am the healing.
Not the shadow.
The sun it now fears.
So next time you meet someone soft-spoken,
don’t mistake it for weakness.
They might be the loudest echo
from a childhood that tried to silence them.
And they're still here.
Still rising.
Still rewriting the ending.
