They say silence is heavy—
but not like this.
Not like the weight tucked
under a child’s ribs,
where trust should sleep.
A brush too long,
a look too slow,
a whisper that withered
what should have bloomed.
And still,
the child swallowed it whole.
Not from fear alone—
but love.
A love too big
for small bones to carry,
yet carried anyway.
Because sometimes
the quiet ones
are not afraid of shadows—
they’re protecting the sun.
So they shield the warmth,
the smiles at dinner,
the fragile laughter
holding a home together.
And who protects them?
The wise are not always old.
Sometimes, it is
the child who teaches
how to hold a heart,
even when theirs was dropped.
So hear this—
before you chase grades,
before you polish manners,
before you post perfection—
wrap your arms
around their spirit.
Guard their skin
like sacred ground.
Because what touches a child,
touches the whole world.
And if you’re not ready,
don’t romanticize the role.
It’s not poetry
unless it’s lived.
Unless it’s safe.
Let love be loud,
let presence be proof—
not all pain screams.
Some
just
stays.
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