The nights were long,
where silence split into echoes
of footsteps and slammed doors.
I learned to cower at shadows,
to shake at the slightest turn of the key,
my nerves strung tight as wire,
tuned to danger like an unending hymn.
But years are stubborn teachers.
I’ve stitched myself back together
with threads of laughter,
with the steady breath of mornings
where no one raises a hand.
Now, I walk through open doors,
carry the scars like lanterns—
proof that I survived
what was meant to silence me.
And when the trembling comes,
I remind my body gently:
you are safe now,
you are whole,
you are mine.
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