I have been admired for my strength before.
I usually just nod, brush it off.
They wouldn't understand what it really is.
I'm not strong.
But she would.
She knows more about me than anyone ever has.
She would know the how.
She would understand the why.
Truly.
I wish I could tell her.
I was never strong because someone taught me.
Never had a role model.
Not even sure what strength is supposed to look like.
I only acted strong,
because no one came.
When the house was silent, or worse, violent,
I learned that safety wasn’t given.
If I wanted it,
I’d have to build it myself.
Brick by aching brick.
I acted strong.
I acted.
I wish I could tell her it was just that,
An act.
She would understand.
She would see through it.
She would see me.
She would see the scared little boy inside.
And she’d love him anyway.
She’d know he just needed a hug.
But the hug never came.
So he became his own anchor.
Because the ones who should’ve held him,
Kept letting go.
And then...
She let go.
She learned young how to be quiet.
How to keep secrets.
That expression was dangerous.
That truth was not safe.
So she did what she knew.
She kept it all inside.
I wonder if she’ll ever tire of hiding.
If she’ll ever trade secrets for voice.
She sees strength in me.
I see a voice in her,
For her.
I hope one day,
She sees it too.