nine going on four

I threw tantrums like a four year old at nine- screaming, kicking, wild with everything I never got to release. They said I was too old to act like that. But I was too young to carry what I carried. No one noticed me falling apart at six. Too busy surviving. Too busy feeding babies and holding in screams. So when I was finally safe, my body remembered what my voice never got to say. I threw fists at shadows, cried in corners, slammed doors like they were the mouths that never answered me. And still- they called it "acting out." I called it finally being seen.