Raised by Sunlight

What if she had been raised by sunlight,

by the gentle pull of dreams—

not the sharpness of slammed doors,

not the names that split her seams?

What if love had propelled her forward,

instead of fear holding her back?

Would she move like someone whole,

not always spackling cracks?

Would the mirror be a window,

or maybe just a smile?

Would she open her arms to kindness,

invite it to linger a while?

No voice inside to hush her,

no darkness to dim her flame—

just the calm of steady breathing,

the absence of her shame.

Would her laugh be less like armor,

more like bells in chapel halls?

Would she carry joy like scripture,

not an anvil that always falls?

If only she had been raised by sunlight…