surface level
She knew the man who set the knife,
who carved the roast and played his part,
who told a joke and was good at art,
but not the one who shaped her life.
You know the girl who smiles when called,
who says the right things, nods on cue,
who keeps the peace, stays controlled,
who never asks too much of you.
Within your house, she stands apart,
a guest who lingers by the door.
She doesn't speak what haunts her heart,
doesn't ask for anything more.
She doesn't sprawl across the couch,
doesn’t raid the fridge,
it's not a home, just a cold house,
where distance grows, a widening ridge.
They meet in moments on the clock—
holidays, birthdays, dinners too,
where words are light, no deeper talk,
walking on eggshells, afraid to break through.
She wonders if you ever see the parts of her she keeps concealed,
the fears and dreams she hides from view
the things she hides, the wounds she’s healed.
She plays the role, but feels the cost,
the gap between you only grows.
You never see the love she’s lost
a daughter, standing all alone.
And though she smiles and holds her ground,
the truth remains, so far from you.
She wonders if you’ll ever see the daughter that you never knew.
March 2025