Sticks & Stones

They taught me,

sticks and stones may break my bones

but words will never hurt me.

That’s the first lie I ever swallowed whole.

Because bones?

Bones know how to knit themselves back together.

Skin bruises, then fades like last season’s storm.

But a word,

sharp, careless, flung without thought,

it sinks deep,

like a splinter the body can’t spit out.

“Never hurt me”?

Tell that to the boy who stopped raising his hand in class

because “dumb” stuck like glue in his throat.

Tell that to the girl who hasn’t looked in a mirror for months

because “ugly” is tattooed across her reflection.

Tell that to me,

and the thousand me’s I’ve met,

walking heavy under the weight of syllables

we never asked to carry.

Words are architects.

They can build a cathedral in someone’s chest

or smash the stained glass

so all that’s left is rubble and echoes.

So when you speak,

know this:

you are not tossing feathers into the air.

You are planting seeds.

Some grow gardens.

Some grow weeds.

Either way, something takes root.

Sticks and stones may bruise the body,

but words, they bend the spine,

rewrite the map of a life,

tilt the horizon until someone believes

they were never meant to rise.

So speak like every sentence

is flint sparking a fire,

like every phrase might be

the rope pulling someone back from the edge.

Because yes,

words hurt.

But words also heal.

They are the medicine,

the bandage,

the bridge.

And when we choose them right,

when we wield them with care,

we prove the old rhyme wrong.

Sticks and stones can break my bones.

But words,

your words,

they can save me.