Work Text:
I grew up too fast, my childhood slipped away,
before I learned the gentle art of play.
I learned to stand alone when I was small,
to catch myself whenever I would fall.
I learned to hide my tears; to subdue my fears.
They called me “mature,” as if it were kind,
while I was leaving parts of me behind.
I held weights that should have never been mine;
and learned to breathe through, to say I was fine.
I became the one who fixed what broke,
And through it all I never spoke.
I learned to calm storms that came too near,
and taught myself to vanish need and fear.
I stayed composed when everything would shake,
as if I had no right at all to break.
And now I stand where childhood should remain,
yet even its memory brings me strain.
I want to laugh without a guarded mind,
to leave that constant vigilance behind.
But even when I try to let it show,
the younger part of me refuses to go.
She lives behind the walls I built so high,
in quiet rooms where softened hours die.
I long for a time when I don’t have to be strong;
for days where I can simply just belong.
But I remain what I was forced to be:
a child who grew too soon to ever be free.