Small Bones Carry Big Burdens

I remember you—

knees scraped raw on the concrete floor,

counting hours by the flicker of a single bulb

that never slept.

Your hands too small for the iron tools,

yet somehow the world

kept placing weight in your palms

like you were made to hold it.

I couldn’t tell you then—

you were already breaking

in places no one saw.

Small bones shouldn’t bear a kingdom’s load,

but you did, alone,

in that narrow room

where childhood never found a door.

I hear your name in every echo of fatigue,

every scar you left unspoken;

I grew from what you endured—

but you shouldn’t have had to.

Little one,

I carry you still.

I see you now—

a silhouette bent over the moving belts,

trying to make sense

of why the grown world

leaned so hard on your tiny frame.

Your dreams were folded

like discarded fabric scraps,

piled in corners

no one swept clean.

Small bones shouldn’t bear a tyrant’s greed,

but you did, unseen—

a ghost inside the industry’s machine.

I speak for you now

because you never learned how

to raise a trembling voice

without consequence.

If I could go back,

I’d lift the burden from your spine—

tell you the world lied

when it said you were made for labor.

You were made for light,

but only darkness knew your name.

Small bones carry big burdens—

but only because no one stopped them.

I promise you,

I am the strength you became

out of the weight they forced on you.

You didn’t fail—

you survived.

And I’m here

because you held on

long enough for me to speak.

Little one,

rest now.

I’ve got the burden

from here.