When I was a little girl I learned I should hide
Hide from shaming eyes and sharp tongues
Hide from shadows and secrets I didn't understand
When I was a little girl I didn't know my voice could be strong when it needed to be
I only knew to bite and lash out when it was safest, when I knew no matter how ugly I was I would still be loved
When I was a little girl I learned to hide.
I learned to hide my heart because it it was bad
I learned to hide my thoughts because they were stupid
I learned to hide myself because I was scared of harsh words and pushing hands
I hid myself in bathrooms, behind davenports, on stairs to scary basements, under dining room tables.
Because there I could taste the derision and ambivalence in the air while pretending it had no affect on my small, breaking heart.
When I was an older girl I learned to hide behind anger and sarcasm, scoffing and ambivalence. I accidentally became the kind of girl the angry shaming voices were when I was small.
And God said stop.
Stop with the anger, stop with the scoffing and ambivalence. (He would have said stop with the sarcasm but he thinks I'm hilarious)
He's challenged me to heal, to soften, to stop being the scared hiding girl who refuses to be anything but angry.
It's hard. I cry more now. But I'm holding on to it being worth it in the end.