I think my life was written before I was handed the pen.
Everyone keeps adding sentences
to a story they swear belongs to me,
changing my endings,
rewriting my words,
pulling strings I never gave them.
And somehow,
I became the character
who isn't allowed to speak.
I live inside a house
that knows my footsteps
better than I know myself.
I wash the plates
that hold everyone else's hunger.
I sweep away the messes
I didn't make.
I fold everyone else's clothes
while pieces of me
remain scattered on the floor.
Sometimes I wonder
if I am a daughter in this house
or simply a maid
wearing the name of someone
who lives here.
Nobody calls it a prison.
There are no bars.
No locks.
Just invisible strings
wrapped around my wrists,
my throat,
my heart.
Every time I try to move,
someone pulls.
Every time I try to breathe,
another expectation
tightens around my chest.
So I learned to breathe
in teaspoons.
Small enough
that nobody notices
I'm drowning.
My life feels like a puppet show
where everyone else holds the strings
and I am expected to smile
when they make me dance.
I say I'm okay
because it's easier
than explaining the storm
inside my head.
But sometimes,
when everything becomes too loud,
I find God in the quiet.
He doesn't always remove the walls.
Sometimes He simply
helps me stop believing
they are the whole world.
He reminds me to slow down.
To breathe.
To let Him carry
what my hands are too tired to hold.
And somehow,
the chains feel a little lighter.
Not because everything is fixed,
but because I remember
I don't have to fix everything
in one night.
Maybe getting my life back
isn't about becoming
who I used to be.
Maybe it's about discovering
who I was supposed to become
before everyone else
started writing my story.
So I pick up my pen again.
And this time,
I leave some pages blank.
Because not everyone
gets to write my ending.
Not everyone
gets to hold my strings.
And when I forget that,
God reminds me:
I am still here.
Still breathing.
Still becoming.
Still His.
Maybe that is where
my story truly begins.
Not when everything gets better,
but when I finally realize
my life is mine to live,
my voice is mine to use,
and my story is mine to write.
My story.
My poem.
My life.
I think it would be more powerful if not quite so long - there could be a bit of discerning pruning