Softly Unlearning

I caught myself apologizing to a door today

because it didn’t open fast enough.

Old reflex.

Like saying sorry for taking up oxygen.

﹁﹂

My mother’s voice lives in my spine

straighten up, hush, be nice, be easy.

As if softness meant silence,

as if love only stays when you shrink.

﹁﹂

I’m unlearning the way I fold

my feelings into napkins

and set them beside the plate

for someone else to decide if they’re messy.

﹁﹂

I throw out a sweater you once liked on me,

even though it still smells like winter

and a little like fear.

That sounds dramatic. It is.

﹁﹂

Some days I heal in huge gestures

blocking numbers, deleting photos,

lighting a candle like it’s a warning.

﹁﹂

Other days it’s small:

I eat when I’m hungry,

I rest without earning it,

I say “no” and don’t add a smiley face.

﹁﹂

I practice standing in my own kitchen

like I belong there.

Like my name isn’t temporary.

﹁﹂

There’s still a part of me

that flinches when the room goes quiet,

waiting for punishment to arrive.

﹁﹂

But I’m learning this new language

not loud, not perfect,

just mine.