A child hearing harsh words take a new meaning. It does not have to be spoken directly. I mean hearing the words in harsh tones lead to wonders of meaning. The effect it has is a different issue but it stays buried and takes its turn and toils in many forms

The battlefield was quiet at first,
No swords drawn, no banners raised.
But the air shifted when the words came,
Sharp-edged or soft, they fell like arrows.

She didn’t understand them—
Not fully, not their shape or weight.
But their tone marched through her mind,
A force too great to ignore.

Were they friend or foe?
She didn’t know.
All she knew was the feeling—
A sting that burned,
Or a touch that soothed.

Each word left its mark,
A battle scar or a balm.
Some wounds bled silently,
Invisible, but deep.
Others healed like gentle whispers,
A memory she clung to for peace.

Before the words, who was she?
A quiet soldier, unaware of war.
During the words, who was she?
A child caught in the crossfire,
Unsure whether to fight, flee, or freeze.

And after the words, who was she?
Changed.
The ground beneath her shifted,
Her sense of self reformed.
Something inside her broke—or built.
She could feel the weight of the aftermath,
But the discovery would come later.

Words are battles, she learned.
They can tear down or defend,
Wound or protect.
And in her young heart,
A quiet vow began to form:
To choose her weapons carefully.