In the garden of my youth, words were weeds
that choked the blooms of my self-love.
Each glance, a whispered critique,
each smile, a hidden knife.
I learned to wear a mask of stone,
to pretend the cuts didn't bleed.
In teenage halls, I walked alone,
with laughter that hid my plea.
I acted as if their words were air,
meaningless whispers in the wind.
But inside, a storm raged, unaware
of the calm I chose to pretend.
Yet, with each step, I found my voice,
a whisper that grew into a choice.
To see beyond the mirrors they held,
to find beauty where they saw none to tell.
I realized their words were not my own,
just echoes of their deepest fears.
And so, I shed the weight they'd sewn,
and found my strength in silent tears.
Now, I bloom in gardens of my own,
where petals unfold without a care.
Their words, once knives, now rust in stone,
as I dance, unbound, with love to share.
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Fathima Shahana