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81
The Hurt They Don't See
<p><br/></p><p>They talk about my body like it’s theirs to critique,</p><p>Pointing out every curve, every line, every peak.</p><p>Their whispers at church and the jokes made at home</p><p>Turn the shape of my stomach to something they own.</p><p><br/></p><p>I pull in my breath till my ribs start to ache,</p><p>Trying to flatten myself for everybody’s sake.</p><p>A camera comes out and I freeze, play pretend,</p><p>As if hiding my softness will somehow make me blend.</p><p><br/></p><p>I’m sixteen and learning how harsh voices sound</p><p>When they plant all their fears in the space I have found.</p><p>Some nights I worry love won’t stay or be true,</p><p>That someone I care for might see me and rue.</p><p><br/></p><p>Yet inside me a flicker refuses to fall,</p><p>A whisper that rises despite every wall:</p><p>“I’m worthy of kindness, of love that feels real.</p><p>My body is human, allowed to just feel.”</p><p><br/></p><p>So even when comments leave bruises unseen,</p><p>I’ll try to stand steady, stay soft, stay serene.</p><p>Because I am not wrong, and my shape isn’t crime.</p><p>And I get to be loved in my own perfect time.</p>
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