The Weight of Shadows

I was nineteen when silence swallowed me whole,

When trust morphed into a knife he slipped between my ribs.

He told me, “You’re special,” as he touched what wasn’t his to touch,

His hands a stain I couldn’t fucking scrub off.

Afterward, I stood in the shower until my skin turned raw,

But no amount of water could wash him away.

For years, I carried him inside me,

Like a sickness, like a curse, like it was my fucking fault.

Then one night, a friend wouldn’t let me lie,

Wouldn’t let me choke on his ghost anymore.

I told him everything.

And though my voice broke into jagged pieces,

I didn’t.

They told me I shouldn’t have smiled at him,

That my dress was too tight, my laugh too loud—

As if my joy gave him permission to ruin me.

His weight crushed me into the mattress,

His hand smothering my screams until I stopped trying.

For years, I woke up gagging on air,

Clawing at memories that played on repeat in my head.

I saw him everywhere—in every shadow, every stranger’s glance.

I wanted to disappear.

But one day, a woman grabbed my hands and said,

“This is not your fucking fault.”

And in her voice, there was something steady,

Something fierce enough to shake me awake.

He didn’t win. I’m still here.

I was twenty-eight when violence found me,

When fists split my lip and cracked my pride.

I didn’t see it coming, didn’t even get a chance to defend myself.

The world spun as I hit the pavement,

Blood spilling from my mouth like some fucking offering.

And all I could think was, Why me?

I stayed in my apartment after that,

Kept the blinds closed,

Started seeing ghosts in every passing face.

But my brother kicked in my door one day,

Grabbed me by the shoulders,

And told me to stop running from a fight I didn’t start.

“We’ll get through this,” he said,

And I believed him—because what else could I do?

The first time he hit me, he cried afterward.

Said he didn’t mean it, said he loved me,

Said I was the only one who could fix him.

So I stayed.

I stayed through the black eyes and broken plates,

Through nights when he slammed doors so hard

I thought the house would collapse.

I stayed because I believed him.

But then my daughter said,

“Mommy, why are you so scared all the time?”

And I couldn’t answer her,

Because my fear had swallowed my voice.

That night, I packed our bags while he slept,

And I fucking ran.

The shelter saved us.

And slowly,

I started saving myself.

They told me I was lucky.

“Lucky we took you in,” they said.

“Lucky you have a roof over your head.”

But if luck feels like belts on your back,

Like being thrown into a wall for spilling milk,

Then I guess I was fucking blessed.

I started hiding in the closet at night,

Pretending I could make myself invisible.

But someone saw me—my teacher.

She saw the bruises, the way I flinched when people got too close.

She made a call, and then another,

And one day, the bad people were gone.

I still hate bedtime sometimes,

But at least now, no one calls me “lucky.”

The gun was loud, like thunder that wouldn’t stop.

Mom screamed.

Dad tried to shield her.

And then they were gone.

Blood soaked the floor where we used to sit and eat together.

I stared at them, waiting for them to get up,

But they didn’t.

Did I hold her hand tight enough?

Could I have stopped it?

I hated the man who did it.

I hated myself for not being bigger, stronger.

And some nights, I still hate the world.

But my sister holds my hand when the nightmares come,

And I hold hers back.

I stopped talking after it happened.

What could I say that would make sense of it?

The bad man shot them.

The bad man laughed.

And then we were alone.

My brother cried for days,

But I didn’t.

I was afraid if I started, I’d never stop.

When Auntie came, she hugged me tight,

And I let her.

She made cookies that smelled like Saturday mornings,

And she said, “It’s okay to cry now.”

So I did.

I cried for Mom, for Dad, for everything we lost.

And when I was done,

I held my brother’s hand

Because I knew he wasn’t done yet.

Healing isn’t some pretty fucking fairytale.

It’s a maze made of broken glass and razor wire,

A constant fight to keep going

When every part of you wants to quit.

We carry our scars like battle medals,

But we carry them together.

There are hands to catch you when you fall,

Voices to remind you that you’re not alone,

Arms that will hold you even when you feel unworthy.

The road is long, and it fucking hurts.

But step by step,

Breath by breath,

We move toward the light.

Together, we rise—scarred, but unbroken.

And though the past never leaves us,

We learn to live.

Together.