An Ode to the Oldest Daughter

From your birth,

you were not planned.

You were not raised.

You were recruited.

Handed the weight in silence,

a world too ready to lean on your spine.

You held the hands of younger siblings,

became the babysitter,

the emotional sponge,

the body shield.

All before your first period…

Mature? No.

Convenient.

You cleaned the messes

you didn’t make,

then apologized

for taking up space.

You begged for softness,

and got assigned chores.

You broke down,

they called it drama.

You spoke up,

they labeled it attitude.

And now you cry in the shadows,

clench your jaw through dinner.

Becoming so fluent in swallowing

your pride,

your grief,

your needs.

Stifling your voice,

your wants,

your worries.

For fear of being told

"you’re too much".

When you’re a result of too little.

Oldest daughter,

hear me, please.

May you unlearn the lie

that love must be earned.

May you weep out loud.

Take up space.

And have your empty hands finally held.

You are not bitter,

you are blistered.

And still you walk.

Still, you run.

Because darling, you were always enough.