Between Bruises & Blooms

We tell toddlers,

use your words,
not your hands.

We kneel beside them
on playgrounds
and living room floors,

gently uncurl
tiny fists,

teach them
that anger
doesn’t give them permission
to hurt someone.

Say you’re angry.

Say you’re scared.

Tell them what you need.

We praise them
when they choose language
instead of violence.

Good job.

That’s how we solve things.

And somewhere,

grown men sit
behind polished tables

with flags behind them
and maps spread
beneath their hands.

They have words.

Entire languages.

Diplomats.

Telephones.

Treaties.

Rooms built specifically
for talking.

And still,

someone reaches
for the bomb.

Somewhere else,

a mother
covers her child’s body
with her own.

A father digs
through rubble
with bleeding hands.

A little girl
learns the sound
of an explosion

before she learns
how to spell her name.

A little boy
falls asleep hungry

because adults
couldn’t agree
where a border belonged.

And tomorrow,

somewhere untouched
by all of this,

a toddler will shove
another child.

An adult will kneel,

take those tiny hands
into theirs,

and patiently say,

use your words,
not your hands.

As if we have taught
the children anything

except that this rule
expires

the moment
you become powerful enough

to break it.