Unlived
Thinking back,
I see a childhood
that does not resemble one.
What do I see?
A little girl with starry eyes
that never mirrored her heart
a dreamer, like every child,
but introduced too early
to disappointment
that left no room
?for gentle arrivals.
Every calculation failed,
yet the formula was right.
Somewhere,
a mistake was made
but where?
At the age of learning sentences,
she was handed paragraphs,
made to witness whole pages.
Still grasping the basics,
she was pushed toward mastery
and in that confusion,
understanding curdled
into fear.
Sweetness became a language
for touches
that reached beyond innocence.
A toy became an excuse
to be thrown
onto a bed of roses
lined with thorns.
What felt like play
carried the weight
of a grandmaster’s force
too much, too soon
until even peers
could no longer fill
the growing void.
And then,
what was once fear
began to understand itself.
She withdrew
not loudly,
but completely.
A young girl,
detached from her own age,
watching life
as though it belonged
to someone else.
The world shrank
?into something insignificant,
and within it,
she, too,
began to disappear.
Every closeness
echoed into deeper loneliness,
until solitude became
the only constant.
An isolated beauty
not at the top,
not at the bottom
just existing
in between.
Experience moves through her,
but she does not move through it.
Everything is mechanical.
Everything is distant.
And somewhere in all of this,
she is still there
unfelt,
unreached,
unlived.
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