Childhood Totem

I used to have this orb—

not mystical, not crafted by gods,

just the glass ball from an old lamp

deemed unworthy of the living room

but good enough for my bedroom.

With my father.

My stepmother.

Their sons.

I kept it like a secret.

A red-glass world that fit in my palm.

A totem of my own making—

round, smooth, warm

when I rolled it between both hands.

It wasn’t magic.

But I believed it could be.

A container for childhood dreams

when no one else

was holding space for me.

In its curve, I stored

every breath I couldn’t speak aloud.

Energy I built in silence—

anger, love, escape routes.

Hopes packed in quiet,

a pocket-sized sanctuary.

Sometimes I pressed it to my cheek,

as if the heat meant it cared.

As if the color meant

I belonged somewhere bright.

No one ever asked about it.

No one ever told me

I couldn't believe in small things.