The water started soft and warm,
like nothing bad could grow.
Just yellow lights and bedtime sounds,
the kind all children know.
Bare feet against the bathroom tile,
small fingers wrinkling white,
a little girl too young to know
that monsters came at night.
Then suddenly his heavy hand
pressed hard upon my head,
and all the air inside my chest
filled up with fear instead.
The world became a violent blur,
all bubbles, noise, and pain,
my tiny body kicking wild
against the porcelain.
I fought so hard.
My lungs began to burn.
I clawed against the waterline,
desperate for one turn.
But grown men feel like giants
when you’re little, weak, and small.
His hand felt like a concrete wall,
too heavy to outcrawl.
And somewhere in that drowning dark,
beneath the bathtub waves,
a child learned awful, ugly truths
about the ones who save.
Because the monsters were not hiding
underneath my bed.
They stood above me breathing hard
with one hand on my head.
Then came the strangest, darkest part—
my body growing still,
the panic fading quietly
against my tiny will.
The world turned dim around the edges,
my thoughts grew slow and deep,
like maybe if I stopped my fight
my fear would go to sleep.
And afterward the water drained,
the house stayed warm and bright,
the towels folded neatly up,
the world still felt alright.
Nobody screamed.
Nobody saw.
Nobody pulled me near.
No one wrapped me in their arms
and said, “You’re safe, my dear.”
So I carried death inside my chest
and silence in my bones,
a little girl who learned too young
survival feels alone.
And even now, some nights, I swear
that child still lives below,
beneath dark water, reaching up
through light that bends and glows.
Still holding one last breath inside.
Still praying to be found.
Still wondering why no one came
before she started down.