i was two when my father taught my body its first word:
no.
and then taught me to swallow it.

he was sickness in a man’s skin,
breathing love like poison,
hands that didn’t stop at no,
mouth that dressed **** in lullabies:

“****, you feel so good.”
“in another life you’d have been my wife.”
“you know you love it really.”
“mm don’t move just let me in.”
“don’t fight it kyra.”

and i didn’t fight—
not because i loved him,
but because he made love a word that meant hurt.

from two to thirteen,
he made my body his altar,
my silence his prayer,
my childhood his *******.

he only stopped ******* me 
the year my blood came,
like rust in my underwear,
and even then,
he only stopped the *******,
only stopped taping it—
kept his fingers, his breath, his rot inside me.

he called it love.
i called it nothing, because there was no word for this.

anger lives in my throat now,
a scream rotting behind my teeth.
grief sleeps in my marrow,
and shame wears my face better than i ever could.

there is no hope here.
he didn’t stop because he saw a daughter,
he stopped because he saw blood.

and i stayed—
a body he ruined before i learned what a body was,
a name he spat back at me when he came,
a daughter buried under the man who made her.

there is no ending.
there is only the memory of his voice
 and the way it still fits inside my skull,
like it was made to stay.

look at me—
no, really ******* look
keep your eyes open until your stomach churns, until the words stick in your throat
see it all: the bruises you didn’t see, the ones under my skin
the broken ribs of my spirit, the teeth marks of his voice in my head

I’m not okay—****, I am so far from okay
I wake up already halfway drowning, chest tight, lungs on fire
before my brain even remembers why
because my body never forgot
my skin still remembers his breath on my neck
my bones still flinch at the echo of his footsteps in the hall

it wasn’t just the hands where they never should have been
not just the nights I couldn’t scream loud enough to wake the house
it was the words, too
the way he rewired my mind until shame felt like love
the way he twisted guilt around my ribs until I believed I deserved it
“you know you love it really, you did this, not me”
that ******* phrase haunts my blood, sits behind every thought like a curse

and god, it wasn’t only what he took—it was what he gave
the rage that burned through his voice when dinner was late, when the TV was too loud,
when I breathed too wrong
the slap across the mouth so quick I forgot what I’d said
the look that froze me mid-sentence, taught me silence was safer
he was an angry man, born angry, lived angry
and his daughter grew up studying every flicker of his eyes like a weather forecast
always braced for the storm

and now that rage lives in me
quiet most days, but not dead
it sits behind my teeth, hums in my chest
and ****, it terrifies me more than anything
because the world loves to say it, don’t they?
the abused becomes the abuser
like it’s destiny
like my blood is poisoned, and loving me means risking infection

and I see it sometimes—
the snap of my voice when I’m too tired, the heat that rushes up my spine
and every cell in my body shrieks no
because I know exactly what rage can do in the wrong hands
I know what it feels like to be small and shaking under the shadow of someone who’s supposed to love you
and the idea that I could ever be that shadow
that I could ever make someone I love feel the way he made me feel
it makes me want to rip my own heart out before it can learn to hurt

and then there’s my Nan—his mother—
with her soft voice and blind faith, telling me
“I just want my family back together, please talk to him again.”
and my tongue rots with all the words I swallow
do you know what your son did, Nan?
do you know about the nights his daughter cried into her pillow, hips bruised and mind breaking?
about the mornings I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror because all I saw was his hands?
do you know how many years it lasted, how many birthdays ruined, how many times my childhood died?
and do you still want that family?

I keep my mouth shut
because it’s easier to carry the rot myself than to watch it spread
but it eats me alive anyway

I’m not enough—never enough
not a good enough daughter to keep the peace
not a good enough sister to protect them
not a good enough friend to stay whole
not a good enough partner to love without fear
not a good enough mother to silence the monster in my blood

and ****, I don’t want to die—not really
I just want it to stop
just a break, a day, a week where my skin feels like mine again
where my voice doesn’t sound like an echo of his
where I can breathe without choking on memory

look at me—don’t ******* look away
see the child he crushed under his rage and his want
see the woman he built from guilt and silence
see the mother who mothers on shaking legs because she knows what fear feels like
see the terror that one day my child might flinch at my shadow
see the truth:
I don’t want to become him
I don’t want my love to taste like control
I don’t want my anger to scar someone else’s childhood the way his did mine

I’m not okay
I might never be okay
and the truth is, breathing doesn’t feel brave, it feels pointless
the next breath tastes like ash
nothing left to hope for, nothing left to heal
just this —
me, the monster he left inside me, and the silence that never stays silent.