She feels like she is trapped,
not in a place,
but in herself.
In a world stitched together
with fear, nerves, and quiet anxiety
that hums beneath her skin.
Her heart doesn’t just beat,
it pounds,
violent and restless,
for a girl she is not allowed to be.
Because her heart wants one thing,
and her life
tightens its grip around her throat.
When will you grow up?
You can’t do this.
You can’t be that.
The words don’t fade.
They echo.
They settle into her bones
like they belong there.
So she runs,
not far,
not really,
just far enough
to pretend.
She disappears into pages,
into borrowed lives,
into worlds where girls like her
don’t feel like this.
Where they are not too much,
or not enough,
or something in between
that no one knows how to love.
She knows it isn’t real.
She knows it won’t last.
But still,
she lingers.
Because reality feels like drowning
with no one noticing
she’s holding her breath.
So she dreams,
of Neverland,
of somewhere untouched
by expectations and voices
that break her down
piece by piece.
A place where she can rebuild
without being watched,
without being told
who she should be.
Where she can finally become
something solid,
something certain,
something hers.
But she always wakes up.
And the weight returns.
And she is still here,
half formed,
half fighting,
half lost.
©️Her Poetic Journey
H