UNRESOLVED CHILD IDENTITY
I grew up beside you, not held by you,
Learning silence the way others learn names.
Your words became fewer as my questions grew,
And I stopped asking, afraid of the blame.
I wanted warmth, not lessons or control,
Not rules wrapped in the name of care.
I wanted you to ask about my soul,
To notice when I wasn’t really “there.”
Now I speak to walls more than I speak to you,
Because walls don’t turn my feelings into noise.
I learned to shrink, to stay small and quiet,
Because every time I spoke, you silenced my voice.
I miss the version of you I once knew,
Or maybe the one I needed but never had.
I’m still your child, standing in the same room,
Wondering when love stopped sounding like “don’t” and “be glad.”
T