“I Was Never Meant to Be Small”

I was taught to fold—

like laundry, like paper,

like dreams.

Taught to cross my legs,

bite my tongue,

and smile with corners only.

They said:

Quiet girls are beautiful.

Soft girls are loved.

Strong girls are… too much.

So I became less.

Drank air for breakfast,

choked on apologies,

laughed like I needed permission.

But hunger doesn’t lie forever.

It howls.

It claws through the cage

and says:

This body is not a prison.

This voice is not a sin.

This fire is not your fear.

I unfolded.

Uncrossed my legs.

Took up space like I paid rent in the sky.

Spoke like thunder—

and found echoes.

To every girl taught to be small:

You weren’t born to whisper.

You were meant to shake mountains

and dance in your own damn storm.