She, A Child

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 She,

a child filled with guilt.
One who blames herself
for taking too much of others
time, care, effort,
love, attention.

Screaming inward,
apologising before being accused.

“I’m sorry for being a nuisance.”
“It would have been better if I weren’t here.”
“I’m sorry for showing such unsightly behaviour.”
“I’m sorry you have to bear with me.”
“I’m sorry for being born.”

One who sees herself as a bother,
as someone who asks for too much
by simply existing.

A fragile girl,
eyes avoiding others,
glistening when she thinks no one sees.
Steps quiet, as if rehearsing disappearance.
Hands guarding an aching chest.
Long black hair falling forward,
hiding her face.
Small shoulders folding inward,
learning the shape of shrinking.

Waiting
not for love,
but for permission.

For someone to say:

You are allowed to bother me.
You are allowed to lean on me.
You are allowed to take up space.

It’s okay, child.
It’s okay.
A.V

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