My kids wont have to worry.
My kids wont have to stop playing with their toys to listen to the crack of their door to hear what their parents are saying.
My kids wont have to recognize the sound of our footsteps.
They wont have to be afraid when dad takes off his belt.
My kids wont have to hide in the bathroom to cry because their parents are screaming at each other.
They won’t have to read the room like they’re looking for the warning.
They won’t have to tiptoe down hallways
like the floor might betray them.
They won’t have to learn silence before they know laughter.
My kids wont know stress before they learn joy.
They won’t know abuse, but gentle hands and care.
They won’t know the weight of a house filled with tension.
They won’t know the language of slammed doors or the sharp punctuation of shouting.
They won’t know the quiet dread that creeps through a house at night.
They won’t know the way fear can sit heavy in a child’s chest.
My kids won’t know how it feels to make themselves smaller just to keep the peace.
They won’t know the art of shrinking,
the survival of disappearing.
My kids won’t know love that comes wrapped in anger.
They won’t know comfort that has conditions attached.
My kids won’t know a home that feels like walking through broken glass.
My kids won’t know a childhood spent learning how to survive instead of how to live.
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