I searched for peace
in bodies, in buildings, in borrowed love,
in places that promised escape
and people who mirrored my wounds.
I begged the universe to be gentle with me.
It stayed silent.
No matter how far I ran,
I returned to the same knot of chaos
you tied inside my chest —
tight, relentless, unforgiving.
The pain was not imagined.
It lived with me.
The tears fell like a ritual.
Nights were spent rolling through darkness,
lonely, trembling, undone.
There was no map back to myself.
Only the long ache of becoming lost.
If you could have seen the depth of my despair,
you would have been forced to face yourself.
But you didn’t.
You ran —
and called it survival.
So I learned.
From every bruise you left behind.
From every silence.
From every fracture.
Years of therapy.
Years of truth.
Years of standing still long enough
to hear my own voice again.
I spoke.
I named it.
I sought justice.
I faced you —
and watched your power fall away.
Now my journey is quiet.
Sacred.
Mine.
I walk without your terror.
Sleep without your shadows.
Breathe without your questions.
Carry no more of your guilt or shame.
I have returned it all to you.
And life —
life is a fast-flowing river now,
clear and moving,
carrying me forward
into love,
into peace,
into a happiness I no longer have to chase.
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 7:54 PM UTC
You knew.
That’s where it begins.
You knew the truth
and still you folded it away,
neat as a letter you never meant to send.
You knew the pain would land somewhere —
you just didn’t expect it to live in me.
So you chose silence.
Not because you had none,
but because it was easier
than saying my name in the dark
and owning what you did there.
I searched for answers
in the spaces you left unfinished,
years spent filling in blanks
you refused to touch.
When I saw you again,
your eyes told me everything
your mouth wouldn’t.
Guilt doesn’t shout —
it waits.
And still you said nothing.
You let time do your lying for you.
You let distance rewrite the story.
You let me carry the weight
so you could keep your hands clean.
Here is the part you never said:
You took my sleep.
You took my safety.
You took my peace.
And you knew you were doing it.
Pain learned my routine.
Tears learned restraint.
Trauma learned patience.
You thought the truth belonged to the past.
But truth doesn’t expire.
It sits.
It watches.
It waits for you to be alone enough
to hear it clearly.
This is me writing it down
so you don’t have to speak it.
But one day,
you will.
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 7:04 PM UTC
I never thought I’d see you again.
Sixteen years
of a face erased by time
but not by memory.
Blurred —
yet the damage never was.
Ten years of trauma
rotting quietly inside me.
Waiting.
Patient.
My twenty-first birthday
became another casualty.
Another thing
you ruined
without consequence.
Today,
there you were.
Walking toward the courtroom doors.
Head turned just enough
to remind me
you still refuse
to face what you did.
You hide in plain sight.
You always have.
Your arrogance leaks from you —
thick,
obvious,
disgusting.
Everyone sees it.
I stood still.
I stood tall.
I did not look away.
You did.
I am not the little girl
you broke and left behind.
You don’t get access to me.
You don’t get fear.
You don’t get control.
I needed to see you.
Before the lies.
Before the courtroom masks.
Before you pretend
you don’t remember.
You remember.
When you walked away,
I looked at the ceiling —
not for comfort,
but because I refused
to look down.
I cried just enough
to stay upright.
My body paid the price.
Every nerve lit up.
Pain everywhere —
not emotional,
not symbolic —
real.
I got home
and my body shut off.
Like a machine
that had survived too long.
The next day,
the tears sat trapped,
heavy,
stuck behind years
of silence.
Then I spoke.
And it tore out of me.
Seeing you dragged me backward —
into a smaller body,
a quieter voice,
a child who mistook abuse
for love.
I asked myself
if you ever loved me,
or if love was just
another word
you used to keep me still.
I don’t want to see you again.
But I will.
A year.
Twelve months of waiting
for accountability
you’ve avoided your whole life.
Maybe you’ll admit it.
Maybe you won’t.
But you know.
What you did
lives in my body —
in my pain,
my nervous system,
my nights.
It will never live in you
the way it lives in me.
I am left with questions
you refuse to answer.
And one truth
you can’t escape:
I survived you.
So tell me —
why did it come to this?
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 7:32 PM UTC
I was once told the story of a tree,
Not of its trunk, nor its leaves that dance free,
But of what lies hidden, deep underground —
A world of silence, where life is first found.
In darkness it grows, twisting through stone,
Stretching and bending, finding its own.
Until one day, it breaks through the air,
Breathing in light — fragile, yet rare.
Lessons unfold — of joy, of pain,
Of laughter, loss, of sun and rain.
Blessings fall like shadows near,
Each one a trial, each one sincere.
At times, the pull drags you below,
Where roots remember what they know.
Still, you rise — again, again —
For growth is born from both joy and pain.
You may stay safe within the trunk,
Or dive deep down where truth is sunk.
For life is more than what we see,
It’s the roots, the storms, the mystery.
Each feeling new, each fear once known,
Echoes the past, yet helps you grow.
Resilience whispers, “You can climb,”
Through every break, through endless time.
And so, you bloom — the longest branch,
A healing soul, in life’s great dance.
A tender leaf in the morning air,
Soft, sensitive — yet strong, aware.
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 5:12 PM UTC
I feel nothing.
The world tells me I should feel joy,
that justice should taste like freedom,
but my chest is quiet —
hollow, still, unsure.
No happiness,
no sadness,
no victory.
Just the silence that follows the storm.
They say I’ve been heard,
that I’ve been believed,
but the words drift through me
like a breeze through broken glass —
touching everything, fixing nothing.
I can’t rejoice in your pain,
not like you did in mine.
I can’t find peace in your punishment,
because my wounds don’t close that way.
I thought justice would heal me,
that truth would set my heart alight.
But the fire never came —
only embers,
soft and tired,
fading beneath the weight of everything.
Maybe I should feel more.
Maybe one day I will.
But right now,
I just feel nothing —
and maybe that,
after all I’ve endured,
is feeling enough.
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 10:06 AM UTC
If the stand must be taken —
then I will rise.
I’ll speak my truth.
I’ll take back my power.
Every tear that falls
will carry the weight of what was done,
and every tremor that runs through my bones
will remind me —
I am still here.
I’ll take the questions.
I’ll take the lies.
But I’ll stand —
loud, tall, and unshaken —
because I know,
I’ve done it all.
And when I stand there,
my thoughts will be with those
who never made it this far.
Those who lost their lives.
Those too scared to speak.
Those who endured the pain
I never had to witness.
You —
you will give me voice.
You will give me reason.
You are the breath before I speak,
the fire that lifts my words
from fear into strength.
I’ll speak louder — for you.
Prouder — for you.
Every word I say
will carry your name,
your silence,
your fight.
My story will be heard.
And so will yours.
For every injustice that took your truth —
I will bring it back.
Because you are my power.
You are my reason.
And I —
I will rise.
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 6:13 PM UTC
Today, I heard the words —
five charges.
Five counts that finally name
what I’ve known all along.
My knees buckled.
I fell to the floor,
tears rushing before I could even breathe.
My chest tightened —
a mix of fear, relief, disbelief.
It’s happening.
Finally.
He’s been charged.
After all the silence,
after the waiting,
after people doubting and pretending —
now the truth has weight.
Now it’s written in ink.
Now it’s real.
But this isn’t the end.
Court still waits ahead —
the walls where I’ll have to hear it all again,
relive, repeat,
watch him face
what he’s spent so long hiding from.
And even though justice has only just begun,
I feel something shifting inside me.
The guilt that was never mine
is starting to fade.
The fear that once ruled me
is losing its grip.
His future is no longer in my hands —
it’s in the hands of truth,
of evidence,
of law.
I’ve carried my pain long enough.
Now, I carry my strength.
So, I’ll let the process unfold.
I’ll let the truth speak louder than I ever could.
Because today marks the start
of accountability.
The start of freedom.
The beginning of justice —
not just in court,
but inside me.
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 11:13 AM UTC
Once,
there was a girl who spoke in whispers.
Her voice lived in shadows,
tucked behind closed doors and unspoken pain.
They called her broken,
but really—
she was surviving.
She learned how to breathe underwater
while everyone else just watched her drown.
He thought he owned her story.
He thought his power
would live forever in her bones.
But she grew through the cracks he left,
like wildflowers through concrete—
defiant,
alive.
Healing didn’t come in sunlight.
It came in small moments—
in trembling hands that wrote the truth,
in the nights she forgave herself
for what was never her fault.
She is not what he did to her.
She is not his sickness,
not his silence.
She is every heartbeat that kept going,
every tear that turned into strength.
Now,
she speaks,
and her words are fire.
She walks,
and the ground remembers her courage.
She’s no longer the girl who hid in silence.
She’s the woman who survived it—
and built her freedom
from the pieces they tried to destroy.
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 5:36 PM UTC
You called it love.
But love doesn’t feel like chains.
Love doesn’t crawl into the cracks of a child’s mind
and whisper, stay quiet.
Your love was manipulation.
Your touch—control.
Your voice, a weapon dressed in kindness.
And I... I was a child.
You saw the chaos around me—
a mother lost to her pain,
a father too far to notice,
and you moved in like a saviour,
when really,
you were the storm.
You built a world where “special” meant silence.
Where comfort meant obedience.
Where your sickness became my shame.
You groomed.
You violated.
You stole the language of care
and twisted it into fear.
You watched a little girl disappear
into the corners of herself,
and you smiled,
because power looked good on you.
But listen closely—
I’m not that little girl anymore.
You don’t own my body.
You don’t own my story.
You don’t own the air I breathe
when I speak your name
without breaking.
You called it love.
But I call it what it was—
abuse.
violation.
theft.
And still—
I rise.
I rise from the silence you left behind.
I rise from the ashes of the child you tried to bury.
I rise—
because power belongs to me now.
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 5:35 PM UTC
He built a house from shadows,
and called it love.
Each brick laid with whispers,
each room locked with fear.
I was a child made of light,
and he taught me to dim.
He said I was special,
but I learned that meant broken.
His hands rewrote my story—
pages torn from innocence,
inked in control,
sealed with silence.
He watched me shrink
beneath his sickness,
while my mother chased ghosts
and my father drowned in distance.
He saw my loneliness
and wore it like permission.
I became a room he entered,
a secret he kept.
He called it care.
It was consumption.
Years later,
I walk through the ruins—
the walls still echo his lies,
but I am rebuilding.
My voice is mortar.
My truth, a flame.
And this time,
the house is mine.
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 5:34 PM UTC