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The walls tremble before the doors do,  
before his voice splits the air like a storm,  
before Mom folds herself into silence,  
before my brother pulls me into the closet,  
his hand firm over my mouth,  
as if my breath could betray us.  
Mom whispers, “It’s okay, go to bed.”  
But I count the slams, the crashes, the cries—  
and wonder if children like me  
ever learn how to sleep.  

I stay because I love them,  
because they need shelter, food, warmth—  
because he wasn’t always this way.  
Because I don’t know how to leave  
with nothing but two small hands gripping mine.  
It’s not always bad. Not always.  
And they need their father.  
Don’t they?  

She won’t leave. She can’t.  
There’s nowhere to go, no money, no lifeline—  
not with two kids and a court that won’t see past him.  
A good man. A working man. A provider.
So I let her cry in the dark, let her call it what it is—hell—  
but tomorrow she’ll still pack lunches and fold clothes.  
She’ll still tuck us in at night. She’ll stay.  
Because that’s what mothers do.  

You don’t leave over a bad temper, do you?  
Men get angry. Women overreact.  
He’s stressed; she should be more patient.  
He works hard; isn’t that enough?  
At least he’s here. At least we have a roof.  
At least the kids have a father.  
At least.

For the kids, she stayed.  
For the kids, I watched and learned:  
that love is sacrifice even when it shatters you;  
that family is loyalty even when it bleeds;  
that silence is safety even when it suffocates you.  

For the kids, I found someone just like him.  
For the kids, my brother left fingerprints on his wife’s arm.  
For the kids, we swore we’d never be like them—  
but we were already broken in their image.  

For the kids, we stayed in pieces too long.  
For the kids, we told ourselves lies we didn’t believe:    
“It’s different this time.”    
“It’s not so bad.”
“We’re doing it for them.”  

Love does not slam doors off their hinges.  
Love does not leave bruises hidden beneath sleeves.  
Love does not shrink you until your children can barely find you anymore.  

Love does not teach daughters to endure pain as proof of devotion—  
or sons to wield anger as power over others.

Love is open arms and steady hands;  
it is words that heal instead of wound.  
Love is a home where no one has to run or hide or whisper “It’s okay” through tears.

Love is leaving when staying means breaking—  
it is showing your children that love should never be feared.

Love is a mother who stands tall enough for her children to see her strength.  
Love is a father who earns respect without demanding fear.

Love is a child who never has to wonder:  
“Is this normal?”
Love should never have to be survived—especially not for the kids. Staying in a violent home doesn’t protect children; it teaches them that love and pain can coexist, that silence is survival, and that abuse is just part of life. This February, during Teen Dating Violence Awareness Month, it’s crucial to break the cycle before it begins. Domestic violence doesn’t just harm partners—it shapes the next generation. We must teach teens that love is not control, fear, or sacrifice. Leaving is not failure—it’s breaking a pattern that should have never started. If we want to prevent violence, we must show our children what love is supposed to be. Speak up, educate, and break the cycle before another generation carries its weight.
Sara Barrett Feb 11
The most substantial burden women have ever endured was not the weight of motherhood, nor the physical toll of childbirth, nor the exhaustive list of responsibilities, including appointments, bills, meals, and future plans, that they often undertook alone.

The most substantial burden women have ever endured was the weight of a man's ego.

Fragile as glass, yet razor-sharp, it constantly required polishing, yet was incapable of shining independently.

A man who made promises he failed to keep, who spoke of sacrifice but never made any, who relied on women to do the work while he took the credit.

A man who needed constant reminders, coaching, and guidance, yet claimed to have accomplished everything on his own.

And when women sought truth, held up the mirror, and dared to say, 'You are not who you pretend to be,' his world crumbled.

Not because it was untrue, but because he was exposed.

And that was the real transgression.

For men can deceive, fail, and break promises with impunity, yet a woman who speaks the truth is vilified.

She is cruel, vicious, and ungrateful for all that he almost did.

And still, she carries the weight of everything: the household, children, meals, laundry, bills, plans, his future, failures, and lies.

While he claims it is hard for him, asks if she cannot simply be nice, and reminds her that he works hard for her.

But what does a man work for if his home is merely a place for a woman to serve, to build his life while sacrificing her own?

And what could women achieve if they never had to bear the weight of a man?
A raw and unapologetic piece about the invisible weight women carry—not just the physical and emotional labor of life but the crushing burden of a man’s ego. This poem exposes the hypocrisy of male entitlement, the way women are expected to build, serve, and sacrifice while men take credit, demand kindness, and call it “hard work.” But what if women were free from this weight? What could we become if we never had to carry a man’s failures, lies, or fragile pride?

For every woman who has ever been told to be “nicer,” to “appreciate” what was almost done, or to shrink herself so a man can shine—this one’s for you. 🔥
Sara Barrett Feb 5
It begins with a whisper,
a shadow stitched to her womb,
its weight pressing like a secret,
its roots spreading unseen.

They call it normal—
the blood that floods like rivers,
the cramps that steal her breath,
the clots dragging her body down.

Pain coils in her pelvis,
a fire that burns without end.
Her bladder aches, her bowels rebel,
her back bends beneath its weight.

They say it’s just being a woman,
but how do you explain the storms?
The tissue growing where it shouldn’t,
the scars binding organs into one.

She carries fatigue like a second skin,
her energy drained by invisible wars.
Her body becomes a battlefield—
every nerve alive with rebellion.

Doctors speak over her pain:
It’s all in your head, they insist.
But how do you imagine blood that stains,
or pain that splits you in two?

One day, she stops asking for answers.
She stands tall in the face of dismissal.
Her voice rises like thunder:
This is my body; I know it best.

Her womb is no longer their battlefield;
it is sacred ground she reclaims.
The shadow no longer consumes her—
it becomes part of her story, not its end.
"Pain as a Shadow" is a powerful exploration of chronic gynecological pain, vividly capturing the physical and emotional journey of living with conditions like endometriosis. This poem confronts the dismissal of women's pain in medical settings, challenging societal norms that normalize female suffering. Through visceral imagery and a defiant voice, it traces the path from silent endurance to empowered self-advocacy. The piece resonates with themes of ****** autonomy, medical gaslighting, and the reclamation of one's narrative in the face of invisible illness. It stands as a testament to the strength found in acknowledging one's own experience, offering solidarity to those who have faced similar struggles.
Sara Barrett Feb 3
In tenth grade, a boy said,  
“Washington, D.C. is in Virginia.”  
I corrected him—  
said it was neither and both,  
its own district.  
The teacher Googled it,  
read the truth out loud,  
then turned to me and said,  
“Apologize for disrupting the class.”  

So I did.  

And I have been saying sorry ever since.  

Sorry for knowing too much.  
For being too passionate,  
too emotional, too empathetic.  
Too much when I demand respect,  
too much when I react  
the way others do to me—  
but when I do it, it's wrong.  

I have learned that women must shrink  
to be acceptable.  
To be small enough to be tolerated.  
To swallow knowledge  
so it does not spill out  
and threaten fragile egos.  
To let silence replace truth  
because truth makes them uneasy.  

We are taught to apologize young.  
Sorry for our hair in the drain,  
for needing tampons and pads,  
for the price of our own biology.  
Sorry for bleeding,  
for growing,  
for existing in spaces  
where men believe we should not be.  

By puberty, we know—  
our bodies are currency,  
our voices are burdens,  
our presence requires permission.  

But not me. Not anymore.  

I have stood my ground—  
faced cruelty when it came for those I loved,  
thrown words like knives because no one else would protect them.  

I have refused to step aside—  
to move for those who walk as if they own the world.  

If you do not see me, you will feel me.  

I will not apologize for choosing my family over expectations.  
For shutting out the noise of a world that demands too much.  
For putting my healing first—  
even when it makes others uncomfortable.  

I will not apologize for being a woman.  

I will not apologize for the space I take up,  
for the voice I refuse to quiet,  
for the boundaries I dare to keep.  

I am done paying the apology tax—  
a tax I never owed in the first place.  

And now? I am collecting every debt:  
every moment of silence stolen from me,  
every inch of space I was told to surrender,  
every truth I swallowed so someone else could feel whole.

I am done saying sorry for being whole myself.

Let them learn to carry their discomfort—because I won’t carry it for them anymore
This poem is a powerful declaration of self-worth and defiance against societal expectations, especially for women. It explores themes of gender inequality, self-empowerment, and the emotional toll of constantly apologizing for one’s existence or actions. The speaker reflects on early experiences of being silenced and criticized for confidence, intelligence, and individuality, leading to a lifetime of unnecessary apologies.
The poem transitions into a bold rejection of these imposed norms, celebrating resilience, boundaries, and unapologetic self-expression. It is a call to reclaim space, voice, and identity while challenging others to confront their discomfort rather than forcing it onto others.
Sara Barrett Feb 2
When the marriage ends,  
and the child is still too small to understand  
what's been torn,  
why is it that the man tells his friends—  
"She was crazy."  
"She never got off her ***."  
"She was too emotional."  
"She never took care of the kids."  

And no one asks him,  
"Why did you stay?"  
Why did you have children with her?  
Why did you marry her in the first place?  
Why does she have full custody now?"  

No one dares to ask,  
because they already know.  

Men stay—  
for the comfort of control,  
for the invisible chains that bind women  
with babies,  
with promises that were never kept.  

They know,  
the way a child knows their mother’s touch  
but never her heart.  

The man knows his power in her silence,  
in her labor,  
in her sacrifices—  
the ones no one sees but her.  

And yet, when she walks away, they ask her,  
"Why did you stay so long?"  

Because they know the cost of leaving  
was more than she could afford.  

But still she walked.  

Still she left.  

Why did she stay?  

For the love she thought might change him.  
For the chance that maybe—just maybe—  
he’d become the man she believed in.  
For the hope that her children would have a father who cared.  

But he didn’t.  

He stayed because he knew—  
the house wouldn’t run without her.  
The kids wouldn’t be fed,  
the bills wouldn’t be paid,  
and the image of a family was more important than the truth.  

Men stay because it’s easier to claim a woman  
than to be the man they promised to be.  

And when she leaves, they don’t ask themselves,  
"Why couldn’t I be better?"  

They just ask,  
"Why did she stay so long?"
"The Unasked Questions" is a powerful exploration of the silent struggles women endure in challenging relationships, revealing the complex emotional landscape of marriage, separation, and societal judgment. Through raw, unflinching language, the poem exposes the systemic dynamics that trap women in cycles of sacrifice and silence, where men's narratives often overshadow women's lived experiences. Released during **National Teen Dating Violence Awareness and Prevention Month (TDVAM)** in February, it resonates with the theme of breaking free from control and reclaiming one's voice. The poem challenges reflexive blame placed on women by turning the lens on unasked questions—Why did he stay? Why did he have children? It dismantles convenient narratives while honoring the resilience of those who walk away despite overwhelming costs.
Sara Barrett Jan 31
My strength is not borrowed—  
it was forged in silence,  
hammered by pain,  
and tempered in the fires of survival.  

It does not come from borrowed fabrics  
or shallow wells of comparison;  
it is carved from my marrow,  
stitched into my skin with my own hands.  
You cannot wield my wounds against me.  

I have held them like stones—  
felt their jagged edges,  
their weight pressing into my palms—  
and I have built something greater than suffering.  

Vulnerability is not weakness;  
it is the raw truth of my existence:  
the mirror I no longer fear,  
the voice that does not waver,  
the heartbeat steady beneath scrutiny.  

Speak of me if you must—  
but your words echo only within walls  
you have built to contain your own fears.  

They do not define me;  
they do not alter my course.  
Compare me if it soothes you.  
Measure my steps against your own.  

But know this:  
my journey is mine—  
unshaken by your judgment,  
untouched by your doubts.  

I walk with confidence—  
not from arrogance, but from knowing:  
I have faced myself in the darkest hours,  
and I did not flinch.
"Cartographies of Resilience" is a powerful and unyielding exploration of strength forged through pain and survival. This poem is a bold declaration of self-ownership, where vulnerability becomes a source of power, and scars are transformed into the foundation of something extraordinary. With unwavering confidence, it dismisses judgment and comparison, celebrating the beauty of an authentic, unshaken journey. A reflection of the soul, it resonates deeply with anyone who has confronted their darkest moments and risen unbroken.
Sara Barrett Jan 31
Four centuries pass, yet echoes remain,
A woman’s cry met with silence again.
Laws were written, inked with good grace,
Yet bruises still bloom in the same hidden place.

The chains are less visible, but still they confine,
A whisper, a threat—unwritten lines.
Justice pretends to be blind and fair,
But turns away when she’s gasping for air.

She flees, she pleads, but where can she go?
The system still asks what she should have known.
“Why did you stay?” they say with a sigh,
As if love was her crime, as if she chose to die.

Four hundred years, yet history repeats—
A woman still fights to stand on her feet.
On January 31, 1641, the Massachusetts Bay Colony’s Body of Liberties declared that a married woman should be “free from bodilie correction or stripes by her husband.” It was one of the earliest legal protections against domestic violence in what would become the United States—a recognition that a woman’s body was not her husband’s to wound.

And yet, four centuries later, how much has truly changed?

Four Hundred Years and Still is a reflection on the persistent cycles of abuse, the systemic failures that allow them to continue, and the way society still asks women to justify their survival. It speaks to the echoes of history, where laws may evolve, but the lived reality for many remains strikingly familiar. This poem is for every woman who has been asked, “Why did you stay?” instead of, “Why did he harm you?” It is for those who fought, who fled, who survived, and those who didn’t.

Because four hundred years should have been long enough.
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