“Outgrew the Armor”
(a poetic self-letter by Shavon Rose Grass)
I thought it was love, and maybe it was — the kind that sets fire to the edges of your soul and calls it devotion. The kind that feels like rebellion wrapped in roses, a war cry dressed as a kiss.
You found me when I was splitting open. A quiet girl with lightning in her bones, who never learned how to scream without someone telling her to whisper.
You said, "Burn it all." And for a while, I did.
I wore your anger like a badge. I sang with your spit in my voice. I tried to make your hatred holy, tried to become the dragon when all I ever was… was the wind.
I wrote verses with teeth. I turned my softness into stone because it felt like power. Because you called it brave. And I needed someone — anyone — to tell me I wasn’t small.
But I am not your fury. I never was.
I’m not a weapon. I’m the hand that puts it down.
I am not the battle you wanted me to fight. I am the field after the fire, green and growing, quiet and sacred.
I love you still, in some impossible way. Not because you were right, but because you helped me see what was wrong. And I’ll thank you for that, from a distance I do not plan to cross again.
You were the mirror. But I was always the light.
I outgrew the armor. And now, I walk bare-skinned into the world, unafraid. And finally, unbound.