Glitter shoes

You survived the breaking

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In the kitchen hum, where the air still smells of sunlight and soap,
a little pair of glitter shoes rests on the tiles like tiny stars that fell too soon.

The mirror above the sink is tired,
keeping track of things no child should measure.
She stands in a sundress wrinkled from running,
hands clutching something she doesn’t understand
but knows she must hide.

The box speaks in a foreign language of women,
and she is still half a song of crayons and jump rope,
trying to sound out the words like a prayer that will not answer.

There’s a humming in her chest,
a secret pressed deep under her ribs,
where laughter used to live.
The mirror over the sink wavers in the afternoon light,
and she sees not herself, but the outline of someone older,
someone she might become if she doesn’t disappear first.

The walls listen.
They always do.
She swallows the noise that wants to escape,
folds it small,
hides it behind her heartbeat.

Outside, the wind drags a swing back and forth,
stealing her lonely confession holding it to the sky that refuses to look down.

Years will go by,
and she’ll still feel the tiles under her bare feet,
still hear the soft click of the faucet dripping like an unanswered question.

She’ll build her smile out of silk and static,
learn to speak without sound,
to dance without ever touching the ground.

But one day,
when the moon is kind enough,
and the shadows remember her name.
She’ll sit by a quiet window.

That little girl will come back, glitter shoes in hand,
asking if she ever got to finish growing up.
And she’ll whisper, softly,
so no one else can hear:

You did not die that day.
You became the storm that learned to stay silent.
You became the light that still finds a way to shimmer.
You, little one, survived the breaking.

And the little girl will smile,
because that’s what she’s supposed to be doing.

Leaving the glitter shoes at the door.