The House I Outgrew

I was raised
in a house of whispered rules—
not spoken, just felt.
Like cold floors in the morning
or the way my mother sighed
instead of apologizing.

My mind was made there,
brick by invisible brick.
Built from
don’t speak unless,
don’t cry unless,
don’t ask unless.

And so I learned
to read silence
like scripture,
to decode the sharp breath
before the storm.

But now—
I am grown,
and this mind,
stitched together by someone else’s hands,
builds rooms around me.

Rooms too tight.
Windows painted shut.

I try to renovate with grace—
add light where there was none,
a window seat for my daughter
where she can dream loud
and unafraid.

She will not inherit
my hush.

She will inherit
my rebellion.