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The Brat With Nowhere to Run
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His Poems There is a wildfire
living beneath my ribs,
and no safe place
to let it burn.
People think brats are loud
all sharp edges,
crossed arms,
and clever little rebellions.
They don't see
that sometimes
a brat is simply a heart
standing in the doorway, waving,
hoping someone notices.
I was never trying to start a war.
I was trying to be found.
There are days my sarcasm
collects dust on my tongue.
The teasing,
the playful defiance,
the grin that says,
"Come get me."
All of it
locked behind quiet.
Because what do you do
when the part of you
that longs to push
has no one to push against?
Where does mischief go
when it has nowhere to land?
So it turns inward.
It becomes restless hands.
Unfinished thoughts.
Words deleted before they're sent.
A thousand tiny storms
that no one else can hear.
People mistake silence for peace.
They don't know how exhausting it is
to hold back every instinct
that was meant to be answered with patience,
a smile,
or the calm certainty that says,
"I see exactly what you're doing."
Instead,
the wildfire waits.
Not because it is gone,
but because there is nowhere safe
for it to dance.
And maybe that is the cruelest part.
Not being too much.
Not being misunderstood.
But carrying an entire language
inside your soul
with no one nearby who speaks it.
So the brat learns to sit quietly.
Smiles politely.
Acts sensible.
While somewhere,
deep beneath her ribs,
a spark whispers,
"I'm still here."
