We only spoke through voices,
distance humming through the line,
but sometimes you don’t need to see someone
to recognise a familiar silence.
I could hear it in the pauses,
in the careful way the words were chosen,
like every sentence had already been checked
before it was allowed to breathe.
Children learn that skill early
in houses where storms live.
Which truths are safe to say.
Which ones must stay buried
somewhere behind the ribs.
I know that language.
I was once a child
who heard half the story
and carried twice the weight.
The quiet conversations behind doors,
the names whispered with tension,
the strange feeling of understanding
things no one ever explained.
And somehow the pieces children are given
are never the ones that make sense.
Sometimes the story changes
depending on who is telling it.
Sometimes the truth gets bent
so the people holding it
don’t have to look too closely at themselves.
Children don’t question that.
They just hold the pieces they’re given
and try to make a world out of them.
But the heart notices things
long before the mind understands them.
That quiet confusion.
That heavy feeling
that something doesn’t quite fit.
I remember carrying that too.
What I know now
that I didn’t know then
is something simple but powerful—
Children are not responsible
for the storms around them.
They are only the ones
learning how to stand
while the thunder rolls overhead.
And sometimes, years later,
when the world grows quieter,
the truth slowly finds its way
through the cracks of old stories.
When it does,
it changes everything.
But it also reveals something else—
The child who survived it
was always stronger
than they were ever told.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 3:13 PM UTC
We only spoke through voices,
distance humming through the line,
but sometimes you don’t need to see someone
to recognise a familiar silence.
I could hear it in the pauses,
in the careful way the words were chosen,
like every sentence had already been checked
before it was allowed to breathe.
Children learn that skill early
in houses where storms live.
Which truths are safe to say.
Which ones must stay buried
somewhere behind the ribs.
I know that language.
I was once a child
who heard half the story
and carried twice the weight.
The quiet conversations behind doors,
the names whispered with tension,
the strange feeling of understanding
things no one ever explained.
And somehow the pieces children are given
are never the ones that make sense.
Sometimes the story changes
depending on who is telling it.
Sometimes the truth gets bent
so the people holding it
don’t have to look too closely at themselves.
Children don’t question that.
They just hold the pieces they’re given
and try to make a world out of them.
But the heart notices things
long before the mind understands them.
That quiet confusion.
That heavy feeling
that something doesn’t quite fit.
I remember carrying that too.
What I know now
that I didn’t know then
is something simple but powerful—
Children are not responsible
for the storms around them.
They are only the ones
learning how to stand
while the thunder rolls overhead.
And sometimes, years later,
when the world grows quieter,
the truth slowly finds its way
through the cracks of old stories.
When it does,
it changes everything.
But it also reveals something else—
The child who survived it
was always stronger
than they were ever told.
Some poems are written for the children we once were. For the ones carrying questions they weren’t allowed to ask, and truths they weren’t ready to see. Writing them is a way of reminding that child—they were never the problem, only trying to grow in a world where the light was carefully controlled.
