The Quiet Between the Cracks

She is the seedling split between two stones,

straining upward,

pressing toward light

while roots tremble in the dark.

One stone is thunder, loud, unmoving.

The other, softer earth,

weather worn, open, aching to hold

but never to trap.

I am the earth.

I give,

even when it breaks me.

Because love, when true,

is not a cage, it is shelter

that lets you breathe, even in storm.

But how do I explain

that silence can scream?

That her hush is not peace

but a plea folded tight,

hidden in the crease

of a too heavy world?

She carries the weight

of keeping us whole,

not because she should,

but because she fears the fracture.

Fears the price of truth

is losing one half of her heart.

And so, she spills the ache onto me,

rage disguised as defiance,

tears cloaked in sharp words.

Not because I deserve the storm,

but because she knows

I will still be here

when it passes.

I do not wish to uproot her love.

I do not wish to split what she clings to.

I only wish for space where her roots

can grow free,

where she can choose

without fear of losing.

So hear me,

not as a fighter,

but as a mother

building a garden in the ruins,

asking only for sunlight,

safety,

and a place for her to bloom

without pretending she is fine.