Wounds

I remember my youth, a little girl trying desperately to fade into the background.

A little girl wishing to feel less like a burden.

A little girl who could not ask for help with homework.

A little girl who didn’t ask her family to school events for fear of it being “inconvenient”

All that little girl could do was try and try and try.

I doubt she knew the depth of the sacrifices she made.

She felt the pain but she never understood, after all how could sacrifices made for the sake of family be bad?

Perhaps if she knew then what I do now she’d learn to exist, to take up room.

She didn’t know then how childhood hurts could turn into adult wounds.

Perhaps these wounds could’ve been prevented but how could I blame her?

She tried so desperately to be what everyone needed, I cannot fault her for my shortcomings

I am older, wiser I should’ve figured it out during all that time being Atlas.

If there is one to blame it is me now, in this moment. Not her, she can be forgiven

I can only hope the women I become will provide the same pardon to the teen I am that I’ve given to the little girl I was

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