Quiet Hour

I was just a child, 
small hands, soft voice,
no armor, no shield, 
no way to outrun the storm
that were my father's face.

They say daddies are supposed to hug
their little girls - 
wrap them in warmth,
teach them the world is safe.
But his hands were thunder,
and I learned to flinch
before I learned to read.

They say daddies are supposed to say
"I love you" - 
plant those words like seeds
so, a girl can grow tall.
 But his words were knives,
sharp enough to carve
"worthless" into the quiet parts of me.

They say little girls should look up 
to their fathers,
See heroes, feel proud.
But I only looked up
to measure the distance
between his shadow and my fear.

But growing older didn't hand me freedom
the way people promised it would.
I learned how to leave,
how to build distance like a wall,
how to pretend that staying away
was the same thing as healing.

And still, I ask myself:
Did I survive him?
Or did I just become an expert
at outrunning the parts of me
that still shake when I hear his tone,
in someone else's voice?

Some days I wonder
if survival means breathing,
or if it means facing the ghost
I've spent a lifetime avoiding.
I don't know which version of me
he hurt the most - 

The little girl who didn't understand,
or the grown woman
who still feels the bruises
in places no one can see.

It took years - 
Years of doubting myself,
years of believing his lies
long after he stopped saying them,
before I forced the strength
to whisper forgiveness.

Not for him. No.
Never for him.
But for the little girl I used to be,
the one who kept waiting
for a father she never had.