Brought into the world too early.

Not early in months,

but early in readiness.

A pregnancy carried by a girl still learning herself.

A father in his late 20s present only in fragments.

A self contain that contained too much.

That is how life began.

There are no memories of beginnings.

Only consequences.

Broken moments.

Sounds before meaning.

Fear learned before language.

A plate slips while washing at the sink.

Soap still in hand.

A mistake becomes a crime.

Hands arrive from everywhere.

No words yet for pleading.

Only instinct.

That familiar corner of the room.

The one chosen when escape is impossible.

Beside a plastic chair and a leaning fan that never worked.

After the hits come the reasons.

“I want the best for you.”

“I’m enduring so much because of you.”

“If not for you, I wouldn’t still be here.”

That is how guilt is introduced.

Over time, it settles in.

The belief that someone else’s suffering is the price of existence.

That staying unhappy is a sacrifice renewed daily.

So the body learns to shrink.

To move quietly.

To sit without knocking things over.

To exist without noise.

Silence is praised.

Fear is called good behavior.

No one explains that the mother was also a child.

That pregnancy arrived before choice.

That responsibility came before consent.

So the weight lands where it can be absorbed.

On the smallest body in the house.

Underage pregnancy does not end at birth.

It continues in houses like this.

In quiet children.

In adults who apologize for taking up space.

Some lives are carried before they are chosen.

And many spend years

trying to forgive that beginning.

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