She walks on toes, in silence dressed,
As if her presence is a guest.
Years of echoes, sharp and rough-
Too loud, too soft, not good enough.
Too much, too little-constant doubt,
That made her want to phase right out.
Compliments land like drops on stone,
They touch but never claim her bone.
“You’re strong, your kind, you shine so bright”-
But her own voice dims all that light.
“They don’t know you”, it softly sighs,
“The fear you mask, the truth you hide.”
She second-guesses every sound-
Each word returns, a ghost abound,
Haunting her in nightmare’s hush,
When the world has lost its rush.
Still-she's learning, step by step,
Through every wound she’s ever kept.
To trust the view that others see-
Not brokenness, but bravery.
Not the girl once coldly told
Her worth was something bought or sold,
A maybe, shifting, not quite real-
Just based on how she made them feel.
But the woman who still wakes each day,
Who shows up, even when afraid.
Who loves with scars the world can see,
And dares to think; “I might be me.”
Perhaps her pride does not yet roar,
But hums beneath her, evermore.
A steady thrum, a whispered song,
That tells her she’s been strong all along.
Her pride may not yet roar or rise,
But hums beneath-her quiet prize.
A steady thrum, a whispered song,
That says she’s been strong all along.
She's not quite there-but still she tries,
And wipes the doubt out from her eyes.
And sometimes, in the mirrors gleam,
She catches glimpses of the dream.
The woman others swear is true-
And in that flash, believes it too.
