by gRj
She was born of stolen whispers,
of love that slipped between the seams—
a secret bright as morning,
a truth too sharp to dream.
The first man held her tiny feet,
kissed her brow before she slept,
built her castles out of maybes,
promised more than he could keep.
(He did not know the mother’s hands
would fold like tides, withdraw like sand—
or how she’d wield their child one night,
a key to turn his lock just right.)
The second man signed her name
in ink that bled through every page,
claimed her laughter as his heirloom,
wore his fury like a cage.
But when the first man dared to speak,
to bare the mother’s twisted game,
the second met him in the street,
hands like hammers, voice aflame.
(And Nya, woken by the sound,
learned young how love can shake the ground.)
Oh, child of tangled, splintered roots,
no man could give you all your due:
one begged for peace and lost his chance,
one stormed the dark to keep his stance.
And you? You grew between the cracks,
a rose that neither hand gives back.