I sit in my rocking chair,
sobbing in my hand,
screaming into a pillow full of rage—
while the loved ones surround you,
clapping,
your hand held out to me,
like a performance.

Fathers-in-law:
“She read it in a book.”
Dismissed before the first page turned.

Sisters-in-law:
“I got a shotgun to my face.”
Pain is a competition
they think they’ve already won.

Mother-in-law:
“It’s his choice.”
As if mine never mattered.

Mother:
“His job is more important.”
My worth calculated
in salaries and silence.
Fathers:
“It’s too late to say no”
Consent stolen
Before I understood

Brother:
“Words hurt, you just have to get over it.”
The bruises unseen
are the ones that bleed the longest.

Therapist:
“Forgive or divorce.”
No in-between.
No room to breathe.

Child:
“It’s your fault he’s not here.”
Guilt stitched into lullabies.

Husband:
“Do you want to go to the mental hospital?”
As if that’s the only place I belong.



But I am not your villain.
Not your scapegoat anymore.

They surround him with applause—
but I am the one still standing
in the ashes
they all pretend aren’t burning.

To prove you care,
don’t reach for me.
Respect my silence.
Honor my space.
Let me rock—
alone,
in peace.