The Weight of Softness

She was not born with iron in her bones.

It was driven into her, slowly, by hands that conflated fear with power.

They put clothes on her with armor too heavy for her frame

and told her to be proud of the weight.

She did not know

that the softest rain carves the deepest canyons,

that blossoms can burst through stone

without ever making a loud sound.

No one told her

that gentleness is its own uprising —

a quiet rebellion that grows gardens in broken places.

She was instructed, rather, to grit her teeth,

to launch her needs like missiles,

to meet softness with suspicion.

A smile was an enemy;

an open hand, a threat.

She marched through life burning her own bridges,

believing ash and ruin were triumph.

But somewhere —

where dust motes spin like tiny suns,

where forgotten melodies hum in empty rooms —

a little truth is waiting for her.

It says:

You were never meant to be a hammer.

You were always meant to be the rain.

You were always meant to be the wildflower,

growing in spite.

And if she ever stops marching,

if she ever unclenches fists

she might feel it —

that sharp tenderness of being —

not as weakness,

but as the toughest thing she has ever known.She stormed through life destroying her own bridges,

believing ash and ruin marked success.

But somewhere —

where dust motes dance like tiny suns,

where old melodies moan in empty rooms —a small truth awaits her.

It reminds her:

You were not made to be a hammer.

You were intended to be the rain.

You were always going to be the wildflower, growing anyway.

And if she ever ceases marching,

if she ever unclenching her hands,

she may feel it —

that abhorrent softness of being alive —

not as frailty,

but as the strongest thing she's ever felt.

They instructed her fists first, before they taught her words.

Instructed her to punch first, before she could point at what she loved.

Instructed her to snarl first, before she could sing.

She learned early:

safety was noise,

was grit,

was the louder boom in a world already roaring.

No one educated her in the language of open hands.

No one instructed her that some things —

such as trust, such as hope, such as love —

bloom only when whispered to, not bellowed at.

She equated sharpness with certainty,

battle cries with belonging.

She zeroed in on the devastation she had caused,

thinking that ashes were the proper conclusion to all stories.

So when softness came —

not as a flood, not as a decree,

but as a single dandelion seed drifting toward her —

she flattened it between her fingers

before it could sprout.

She wears her bruises like medals.

She calls her isolation freedom.

She sharpens herself daily,

without knowing that it is her own body that bled.

And yet —

under the armor plates,

under the thunder of her war drums —

there is a spark.

A question she cannot destroy:

"What if there was more?"

A tiny, perilous hope

that maybe peace was never something you fought past —

maybe it was something you remembered.

She was hardened by storms,

taught that surviving the lightning

was equal to living.

She confused endurance with strength,

silence with strength,

loneliness with wisdom.

When arms extended towards her —

outstretched hands, no claws —

she winced as if wounded.

She built towers out of her anger,

moats of her bile,

believing they protected her.

Walls leaked cold inside,

and the vibration of her own fear

whispered more loudly than a lullaby.

Still, somewhere

under the cement and the callouses,

the little girl she used to be

sat cross-legged, muttering wishes

into the cracks.