Resurrection…

They called you spoiled for the paper and strings,
The shiny boxes, the heavy, wrapped things. 
Yet no one counted the silence you kept,
The small, quiet child where the terror slept. 

You stood by the window while the world fell apart,
Counting the rectangles, steadying your heart.
A prayer repeated ten times in the back of the car,
A desperate shield to make home feel less far.

If you said it just right, if you walked in a line,
You could keep out the storm, you could buy a little time.
It was never your burden, the debt, or the shame,
You were building a fortress inside of your brain.

They told you that violence was only the weather,
That all of the families were broken together.
So you learned how to run with a head start at four,
You built up a fortress and weapons for war. 

And when the world burned and the pain grew too deep,
You took to the fire just trying to sleep.
You are not the bad girl who lost her own track,
You’re the one who survived and is reaching straight back.

The pages were scattered, the glass took the light,
But the child from the trauma never gave up the fight.
She was always worthy of gentle hands and protection,
And the poems I write are her resurrection.