Grew Up Before I Learned to Breathe

I was eight
when I learned
how to stay quiet
even when it hurt.

Ten
when I stopped asking
for someone
to check if I’d eaten.

Twelve
when I realized
I was the one
tucking myself in.

Life didn’t wait
for me
to be ready.

It just happened
fast,
loud,
relentless.

And I kept up,
barely.
Because I had to.

There were no
soft arms
to run into.
No one
asking if I was okay.

I said I was fine.
Even when
I forgot
what that word meant.

Some kids
play with toys.
I played with survival.

Some kids
dream of the future.
I just wanted
to make it
to the next morning.

And now
I carry that child
in my chest.
He’s tired.
He’s quiet.
But he survived.

And that’s
a kind of miracle
no one saw.
Except me.