They don’t get her.
They don’t really understand her
and maybe they never did.
They understand a fantasy,
a version they invented,
soft-edged and convenient
made to stay where they put her.
But not her.
Not who she is now.
Not her hunger for the sky.
Not her ambition.
Not her messy, beautiful becoming.
Not the way she reaches
for the stars and beyond
with both hands.
They want her smaller.
Quieter.
Easier.
They want her in a box
designed by them
a life measured in permission,
a future trimmed to fit
their comfort.
Never to leave.
Never to reach.
Never to outgrow them.
Just remain:
quiet,
pristine
polished like an object,
manageable like an idea.
But she is not an idea.
She is a living woman.
And women were not made
to be kept.