Broken Girl
I used to believe
I was a good girl.
Good girls listened.
Good girls stayed quiet.
Good girls obeyed.
I tried
to be impeccable.
I held my breath
when the door opened.
I closed my eyes
very tight,
as if darkness
could protect me.
Sometimes I wished
if I stayed still enough
I could vanish.
The dark
knew my secrets
before anyone else did.
The walls
kept their silence.
When morning came
I dressed myself
in practiced normalcy.
Everyone said
I looked fine.
But something inside me
had already fractured.
And little girls
do not know
how to repair
broken things—
only how to carry them.
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