What I Would Tell Her

I would tell that little girl: do not mistake arms for a home until your own ribs know how to hold a roof. One day, someone may call you forever with a temporary mouth and toss your heart like torn paper, but baby, you are not the paper—you are the poem. When the grown woman cries, you will still reach with your little cloth, wiping the eye because you know the soul behind it is hurting. That is not weakness; it is resilience with small hands, love before fear taught it to flinch. Keep wiping, baby girl; he may have broken the promise, but he did not break the part of you that still knows how to love. Author Lucyalia

© Slam Poetry by Lucyalia 2024–2026. All poems are copyrighted. Any use requires credit to @Lucyalia. All rights reserved.

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