No child is born with an iron chest, or armour on their skin,
No baby plans the fortress walls that keep the world within.
I did not sit at four years old and plan to be detached,
Or dream of doors with heavy bolts that could be firmly latched.
I did not view a human life as data to be read,
Or plan to mirror back the habits and words that they said.
I was the same as any child, wide open to the day,
Before the terror took the light and stripped the warmth away.
I did not turn to ice for fun, or pick a stark design,
Or learn to follow rules and send up prayers to stay in line.
The shift was not a choice I made for malice or for game,
It was a natural instinct in a house of fear and shame.
When safety is a missing thing and anger fills the hall,
The mind builds up a heavy shield to stand against it all.
It turns the feelings down to zero, cuts the wires straight,
So nothing more can reach inside to break or violate.
I learnt to mimic people just to navigate the space,
To steal their style, take their tone, and copy every trace.
It was not spite, or cruelty, or a calculated mask,
Just a child surviving a life for which she did not ask.
You call it harsh, you call it sharp, or think I play a part,
Because you’ve never had to live with an armour-plated heart.
You judge the way I stand detached, but fail to see the threat:
A child who learnt that loving meant a lifetime of regret.
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