There's a scream that lives in my throat,
sharp and silent,
a razor's edge I can't swallow.
It curls in the shadows behind my eyes,
where his hands still linger,
where the night was stolen and I was leftâ
not broken, but emptied.
I wear my body like a grave,
its surface smooth, its roots rotting.
Each breath is borrowed,
each step is a bargain
with ghosts that refuse to let me forget.
He carved his name into my silence,
left fingerprints on my soul
that won't wash away,
no matter how many showers I take,
no matter how many nights I lie awake
praying for the dawn to undo the darkness.
I've tried to bury it,
to pour dirt over the memories
until they suffocate beneath the weight,
but they bloom like black flowers,
growing up through my skinâ
petals of pain I never asked to know.
There's no escape in the light,
no solace in forgetting.
Every touch feels like a mirror,
showing me what's gone,
what's taken,
what I'll never get back.
This is what survival feels like:
a life lived through glass,
fragile, fractured,
every reflection a reminder
that I will never again
be whole.