The Daughter Between Them
She was their beginning.
A hush before the hymn,
The first flicker of "forever",
In a house still learning how to echo.
They sculpted her from school, scripture and starlit wishes,
Told her,
"Be good,"
And she-
Craving applause-became.
The perfect porcelain princess,
With painted patience
And hair combed into compliance.
"Look at her," they said.
"She doesn't cry.
She doesn't question.
She's everything we hoped."
But, hope is heavy when it forgets to ask permission.
Inside her,
A thunder grew teeth.
A rebellion that didn't scream,
Just simmered in stillness.
She was the daughter who outgrew the script.
Who kissed the rules with trembling lips,
Then wrote her own in the dark,
With hands inked in guilt and God's grace.
Her wings didn't grow easy-
They pressed against a cocoon,
Carefully crafted but not meant for her.
She bloomed in bruises,
Cracked open in silence, and still flew.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to her reflection once,
"For not being the kind of beautiful they prayed for."
And her reflection whispered back,
"But you are a galaxy, not a glass doll.
You were never meant to sit on shelves."
She is her mother's wisdom in wildfire form.
Her father's hope learning how to heal.
She is soft and stubborn,
Sweet like thunderstorms that know how to bloom flowers.
And if you ask her now,
"Would they still love me if I broke the shape they gave me?"
She might smile-just barely-and say,
"They never loved the shape.They loved the story."
She lives with the small sliver of hope that maybe,
Just maybe,
They're still learning how to read the new language she became.
A girl grown into gospel.
A daughter spun from dusk and defiance.
Not broken.
Just becoming.
---
I'm the firstborn.
The one that doesn't fit into their mold.
Childhood memories mostly praise-
Because I was perfect,
Until I wasn't.
Until my choices contradicted the chances.
I'm a mix of the best and worst parts of my parents.
So now I ask myself,
Would you still love me
if I'm not the perfect princess
you want me to be?
YOU ARE READING
Soft Enough To Bleed
PoetryThis is not a gentle poetry collection. This is a mouthful of bruised petals, a love letter to my flaws, a confession pulled from the wound and stitched back with ink. These pages do not promise you healing - they promise you honesty, softness sharp...
