Once I was daddy’s little girl,

Feet on his shoes, spinning in a swirl.

He’d laugh, lift me high to the skies so blue,

And I thought the sun rose just for you.

But time grew teeth, and so did I,

And the laughter turned to a battle cry.

Now your words are storms that bruise my name,

And you call it love, but it feels like blame.

You say, “When will you grow up, huh?”

As if I’m still that child you once saw.

But I grew — just not the way you planned,

Not soft enough for your heavy hand.

I built myself from cracks and ache,

From every promise you chose to break.

Your yelling echoes, sharp and cold,

But I’m not that little girl you hold.

I outgrew the cage, the fear, the tone,

I learned to stand my ground alone.

So don’t ask me when I’ll grow, you see —

I already did.

You just never grew with me.