Little Girl
She still lives somewhere behind the ribs—
that teenage girl, all sharp corners and questions,
knees pulled to her chest in a room
no one ever really entered.
You can see her sometimes
in the mirror’s hesitation—
in the uneven chop of kitchen scissors,
in the stubborn black box dye
that never quite holds the same shade twice.
In the tattoos that blur at the edges,
inked like dares she made to herself
just to feel something stay.
Now there are dishes in the sink,
a phone buzzing with reminders,
small hands or heavy expectations
reaching for her—
asking her to be solid,
to be steady,
to be grown.
But she’s still learning
how to stand without shaking.
Some mornings,
the sun feels like an accusation—
burning through eyelids
that bargain for five more minutes
of not being here,
of not remembering.
Because memory is not a story—
it’s a weight.
It’s a fog that clings to the lungs,
turning breath into labor,
turning simple things
into mountains with no paths.
And her brain—
it does not sing or spark
the way people say it should.
It hums low,
flickers,
runs on survival settings.
Feed yourself.
Keep them safe.
Make it through today.
Everything else is static.
Still—
she shows up.
With chipped polish and tired eyes,
with love that feels clumsy
but is real in its persistence.
With a voice that sometimes trembles
but still says,
“I’m here.”
And maybe that’s where she’s found—
not in some grand revelation,
not in becoming whole overnight,
but in the quiet, stubborn act
of staying.
Of being both the girl
and the woman
at once—
holding her own hand
through the dark,
whispering to herself
like no one ever did:
we’re not done yet.
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