Jul 23
i kept the door open
so the past could walk in and tell me again
what i already knew
that the wound was never meant to close
only deepen
with each morning i pretend not to remember
i made myself into a mask
wore it so long it grew nerves
bled when i smiled
and still i wandered
through rooms lit by other people's truths
waiting for someone
who could look straight through me
and not blink
wildness is a kind of prayer
i said mine with teeth
refused to kneel
refused to beg
and still
every silence was a confession
my heart is a ruin that echoes back
only what i refuse to forgive
i love my enemies because they leave me be
but myself
i sharpen against daily
and call it justice
God watches me watch myself
and says nothing
maybe that is the test
i ache
but quietly
i ache
but i smile
i ache
but i function
i ache
and no one claps
but that
is the performance
so no one mistakes it for weakness
the mirror wont meet my eyes
and i dont blame it
those eyes belong to the boy
who never got to look away
who first learned to lie
by telling the truth
too quietly
i am not hollow
i am not empty
i am too full
of everything i had no place to put
and that fullness
does not echo
so the past could walk in and tell me again
what i already knew
that the wound was never meant to close
only deepen
with each morning i pretend not to remember
i made myself into a mask
wore it so long it grew nerves
bled when i smiled
and still i wandered
through rooms lit by other people's truths
waiting for someone
who could look straight through me
and not blink
wildness is a kind of prayer
i said mine with teeth
refused to kneel
refused to beg
and still
every silence was a confession
my heart is a ruin that echoes back
only what i refuse to forgive
i love my enemies because they leave me be
but myself
i sharpen against daily
and call it justice
God watches me watch myself
and says nothing
maybe that is the test
i ache
but quietly
i ache
but i smile
i ache
but i function
i ache
and no one claps
but that
is the performance
so no one mistakes it for weakness
the mirror wont meet my eyes
and i dont blame it
those eyes belong to the boy
who never got to look away
who first learned to lie
by telling the truth
too quietly
i am not hollow
i am not empty
i am too full
of everything i had no place to put
and that fullness
does not echo
This piece was written from a place I kept hidden for years; so well even I forgot where I put it.
Trauma isn't just something that happens to us,
it's where we are shaped;
where we learn how to survive before we ever learn how to live.
But survival isn't the end of the story.
The work of healing,
of undoing what was done without our consent
is how we begin again on purpose
remade not in reaction, but in choice.
This is what I am trying to do
word by word
ache by ache.
Trauma isn't just something that happens to us,
it's where we are shaped;
where we learn how to survive before we ever learn how to live.
But survival isn't the end of the story.
The work of healing,
of undoing what was done without our consent
is how we begin again on purpose
remade not in reaction, but in choice.
This is what I am trying to do
word by word
ache by ache.
(30/M/Texas)
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