“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.
