There’s a girl in my skin

that I don’t recognize—

she hides in reflections,

behind my own eyes.

She once wore light-up shoes,

sang into a hairbrush mic,

but her name feels foreign

on the tongue of my life.

She sits by the window,

knees hugged in tight,

watching for headlights

that never come at night.

And when Kings of Leon

plays low on the radio,

my chest cracks open

where the old ghosts go.

I remember the way

you cried to the chorus

like it meant something.

You knew every word

like it was your own story—

a little girl aching

for someone to see her glory.

But no one came.

Not then. Not really.

Just a mother with excuses

and a father who hurt freely.

So we stitched together

a version of love

from bruiseless days

and the absence of shove.

We called it affection

when no fists flew,

called it connection

if they said “I love you.”

And when love came wrapped

in apologies and pain,

we stayed—because at least

it came back again.

I’m sorry we learned

that love meant surviving.

That we mistook stillness

for peace, not hiding.

That we gave and we gave

to be “worth the keeping,”

even as we broke

and called it healing.

But listen, little one—

we’re not living like that now.

We are the soft place

our babies lay down.

We are the mother

we never received,

the apology

we always believed.

We’re healing.

It’s messy and wild and slow.

But we are choosing

the love we never got to know.

And when “Use Somebody”

plays late at night,

I still cry sometimes—

but now, it’s alright.

Because I’ve found her,

the child I couldn’t see.

She’s here in my arms.

And she’s safe now—

with me.