Little Voice

Sometimes I'm front and center,

looking through grown-up eyes

at a world that seems too big,

too sharp, too full of whys.

The body's hands are bigger

than the ones I feel are mine,

and mirrors tell me stories

that don't match the me inside.

I want my stuffed elephant,

I want my favorite song,

but others in our system

say I'm getting it all wrong.

"Not now," they whisper gently,

"we're at the store today."

But I just want some cookies

and maybe time to play.

The protectors keep me safe

when memories get too loud,

the caretakers remind me

that being small's allowed.

I hold our youngest feelings—

pure joy and wonder bright,

the part that still believes

that everything's alright.

Sometimes I'm co-conscious,

watching from inside,

while older parts take over

to navigate and guide.

I color in the margins

of meeting notes and lists,

leave glitter in coat pockets

where the fronter can't resist.

The body may be older

but my heart stays young and true,

I keep alive the dreaming

and the trust we thought we'd lose.

When nighttime comes too heavy

and the world feels cold and stark,

I'm the one who still believes

there's magic in the dark.

Some days it's hard explaining

to those who cannot see

that little voices matter too—

we're part of being free.

In our internal family,

I'm loved for who I am,

the keeper of our sweetness,

our most gentle lamb.

So when you meet our system,

remember I am here—

small but never lesser,

precious, loved, and dear.