No battle is won

I was told

the sharp edges were necessary—

that to love meant to bruise,

to prove yourself by enduring the blow.

They called it strength

when they silenced me,

called it wisdom

when they never listened.

Years later,

my reflection carries the weight

of their voices,

and I see it—

the lie that lived in their throats.

It was never required

to strip softness from the skin,

to turn warmth into armor.

No battle was won

by cutting down the smallest flowers.

The ones who told me

to think of others

never stepped outside their own shadow.

Their generosity was a mirror—

a gift they demanded back.

I am older now,

and I know:

kindness is not weakness,

and cruelty is not truth.

The only victory

is refusing to inherit their war.