She,the first
She came into this world without asking,
Not for love, but to fit the mold society built for her—
To carry expectations she never chose.
Before she knew “want,”
Before she understood touch,
She was a flower pressed between the hands of the world,
Measured by demands she never agreed to.
She grew not with love,
But with duty—
Holding responsibility before she learned to stand,
Carrying her family, her world,
On shoulders too small to bear such weight.
She became everyone’s anchor,
Living many lives for many people,
Yet never one for herself.
Her mind twisted with unspoken thoughts,
Starved not for food alone,
But for care—
For a touch meant only for her,
For recognition that she is more than a giver,
More than a vessel of sacrifice.
She learned to achieve silently,
To dream in secret,
So no one would feel disappointed—
Even as her own heart stayed hidden.
She bore loss quietly,
Kept her life small
Even while the world around her overflowed
With the things she earned.
She did this to keep others from hurting,
To keep love balanced on fragile scales.
Yet still—
Through exhaustion,
Through the ache of being first,
Through the weight of being unseen—
She endures.
She heals herself.
She breathes.
She survives.
A quiet, steadfast testament
To a soul that gives everything
And asks nothing—
Except the small, sacred grace
To simply be.
Copyright © Sureka Moorthy | Year Posted 2025
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