abuse is a shadow that stretches long
a silent echo in the chambers of years
at first, it stings like fire on fresh skin
sharp, unbearable, a scream caught in the throat

then it seeps into bones
a slow ache that wears down the edges of self
confusion tangled with fear,
hope buried beneath layers of silence

the reaction is survival
numbness when feeling is too much
anger when words fail to protect
withdrawal to a place no one can reach

years pass, but the ghost remains
in moments that flicker, unbidden
a look, a tone, a memory
triggering the wounds that never healed

sometimes rage breaks loose
not just at the abuser, but at the world
for seeing, for turning away
for the unbearable weight of bearing alone

and still, beneath it all
there’s a fierce thread of life
a stubborn pulse that refuses to be broken
a whisper of strength growing louder with time

the reaction to abuse is complex
pain, yes, but also power
and the slow reclaiming
of what was stolen in silence

mom hears my truth
and folds like paper
christians quick to point fingers
faster to correct than to come correct

they siphon light
steal the shine from souls who dared to glow
call it jesus
but inside, they’re dead
burning slow
hollow flames licking empty bones

i watched them judge from their cracked thrones
shouting mercy while clutching stones
scared of the fire i carry
the truth that burns brighter than their fear

they say love, but love is a ghost
a shadow in a cage
while they hide behind sermons
wearing chains of quiet shame

mom, you chose silence over my scars
easy to condemn but harder to see
your faith a brittle mask
cracking under the weight of what’s real

and i’m here, raw and unraveled
calling out the gods of hypocrisy
because the brightest light
comes from the ones they try to ***** out

to cast out a soul already broken
to shut the door on pain and effort
is a wound deeper than any fall
a cruelty that knows no excuse

when the body is weary, the spirit bruised
and every breath is fought for with trembling hands
to be pushed aside is to deny
the very fight that keeps them breathing

they give all they have
a thousand small battles, unseen and unheard
each step forward a mountain climbed
each smile a victory over shadow

there is no justification in turning away
no righteousness in exile when mercy is needed most

to kick out the disabled is to erase their struggle
to silence their courage
to deny the heart that beats fiercely
even when the world grows cold

kindness is not optional
it is the very foundation of our humanity
and those who refuse it
must carry the weight of that choice

for the greatest injustice is not the illness itself
but the abandonment
of those still fighting to be seen

they choose silence
a void filled with whispers and shadows
gossip spun like webs to trap truth
but i am the keeper of timestamps
the scribe of moments etched in light

this is their grave mistake
to turn away from presence
to trade compassion for rumor
to build walls where bridges once stood

spiritually, they sever the thread
the bond that demands honesty
accountability carved in shadow and breath
closing doors with every unspoken word

while they scatter lies like seeds in wind
i gather facts like sacred fire
each timestamp a beacon
each record a step toward clarity

there is no path back through shadows
no healing in silence and denial
only in truth laid bare
in courage to meet what’s real

i stand in the light they fled,
holding the story they tried to erase
and in this holding
there is power
there is justice
there is no turning back

she never crossed the threshold
never saw the weight i carried
never met the pain i lived through
yet she held the power to deepen the silence

her family—ghosts at the edge of my story
absent but always looming
their knowing eyes turned away
while i struggled in the dark

they helped from afar, a distant echo
meds and food delivered
but no hands to hold, no visits to bridge the gap
as if my suffering was a tale too inconvenient to witness

the betrayal is not just in absence
but in the coldness that pretends it cares
the quiet that says i am less than worthy of presence

and still, their names haunt the corners of my life
a paradox of support and neglect
of caring that doesn’t dare meet the real me

this is the fracture line that runs deeper
than any wound i carry alone—
the family that never showed up
yet shapes the silence i wrestle with every day

i gave everything i had
my voice, my truth, my sweat poured out
to build bridges where silence lived
to light candles in rooms grown cold

but my efforts became shadows in their eyes
twisted, warped, demonized
a story told backwards
where my care was seen as weakness
my reaching, a threat to their walls

and yet, in the quiet corners where i was unseen
they took the shapes i forged
borrowed the flames i struck
copied the paths i cleared
all while denying i ever walked them first

my mother, my sister—mirrors reflecting my work
without the courage to acknowledge the hands that shaped it
they dance in my footsteps
but refuse to face the footprints i left behind

this is the cruel paradox of family
the ones you try hardest for
who twist your light into shadows
only to chase after the very glow they refuse to name

i carry this narrative heavy on my chest
a burden and a fuel
knowing that my truth, even when denied
cannot be erased or unspoken

because to build without thanks
is to create from a place beyond need
and that is a power they can never take

i am the story told in shadows
a paradox woven tight within my bones
the narrative splits like a cracked mirror
reflecting truths that cannot coexist

i am both the broken and the healer
the lost child and the one who carries the flame
a wanderer trapped between silence and scream
anchored in memories that refuse to fade

they say rebuild, start anew
but how do you construct from ruins
when every brick weighs heavy with betrayal?
when the past is both prison and refuge?

i carry the ache of being unseen
and the fierce pulse of becoming known
the contradiction of craving connection
while fearing the wounds it might bring

in this story, i am the author and the character
the victim and the warrior
the silence and the roar
caught in the endless loop of pain and hope

and maybe that’s the truth i must live
a narrative unresolved, unfinished, raw
a paradox that refuses neat endings
because some stories are meant to breathe
between the lines of brokenness and grace