"The Shape of Quiet"

-
 A mother once told her daughter,

Be careful.
Others are home.

As if a presence
could press against her voice
and make it smaller.

She said it in passing
between laughter
that rose a little too high,
between moments
that stretched a little too free.

Be mindful,
she would say,
as though the air itself
asked her to fold.

Lower your voice.
Soften your edges.
Take up less room.

And the daughter wondered
when did living
become something
to apologize for?

Why is caution
stitched into a girl’s being
like quiet thread?

Around her,
freedom moved
without hesitation—

unmeasured,
unquestioned,
untaught.

It did not pause
before speaking.
It did not shrink
before existing.

It simply was.
So why was she taught
to carry herself
like something fragile
like something that must not spill?

Maybe her mother spoke
in echoes of rooms
where silence meant safety,
where obedience passed for love,
where fear learned
to call itself care.

Maybe those lessons
settled so deep
they began to feel
like truth.

But the daughter
she could not wear them.

She wanted to say
I will not live
like a lowered voice.

I will not measure my breath
against the comfort of a room.

If freedom can exist beside me
without question,then mine
does not need permission.

Respect is not disappearance.

And love should not ask a girl
to become less to belong.

-by khudse

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