I’ve grown my hair long,
then cut it neatly at my shoulders—
yet still, I feel so small.
I’ve learned the choreography of silence:
heels clicking on borrowed porches,
laundry flapping on tired lines—
yet still, I feel so small.
I’ve written letters
from kitchens that smelled of starch,
signed them with hearts I barely recognized—
yet still, I feel so small.
I’ve learned the difference
between standing by and standing still—
yet still, I feel so small.
I’ve lived in borrowed rooms,
draped in curtains I didn’t choose—
yet still, I feel so small.
I’ve carried his life like a second skin—
yet still, I feel so small.