The Mask I carry

I carry the weight

on my hips,

on my face —

a shield.

Each curve, each softness

a layer of armor

I built when they forgot

I was small,

fragile.

I did this for you —

hands that betrayed you,

evils that raised you,

voices that told you: not enough.

I grew larger,

so the world saw strength,

not fear.

Our body is not a prison

but a shelter:

to keep you safe,

to keep me sane.

Now, little one,

I feel you breathing,

still and safe,

and I know —

we no longer need these walls.

We are ready to be lighter,

not from loss,

but from laying down the bricks,

shedding the weight of our pain.

Freedom