Softness as Rebellion

They taught me

that survival meant

iron skin,

clenched fists,

a voice sharp enough

to cut glass.

But I learned different.

I learned softness

can be a blade too—

silent, bright,

slipping between ribs

of a world that wants me

bitter, hard,

silent.

I learned how to bleed

and still say please.

How to carry pain

without handing it off

like a curse.

I learned to offer

gentle words

even when my own throat

was raw

from screaming.

My softness

is not weakness.

It is teeth.

It is choosing

to keep my palms open

when I could

close them

into fists.

It is my quiet refusal

to become

what hurt me.

Softness is my rebellion.

My war cry

whispered.

My victory

unsung.