I am still here,
Everyone has left while I am
stuck in the field.
The grass remembers the shape of my body,
bent and broken into it.
The earth pressed cold against my back
like it was trying to swallow what happened whole.
glass blades bent,
stars spinning around.
The sky didnt blink.
The moon didn't move.
You walked away
while I was left to bleed,
left counting constellations
So I wouldn't count what you were doing to me.
blood pooling.
thicker than molasses.
sticky between the roots and dirt,
like the ground itself was trying to hold me there.
I screamed into the soil
because no one else would listen.
My voice is buried deeper
than the footprints left behind.
and then the worst part-
not the grass,
not the weight of you,
not even the silence after-
but her.
my bestfriend.
My almost sister.
Taking my story in her hands
and twisting it until it fits her comfort.
She said I caused it.
said I lied.
handed my pain to my own brother
like it was gossip instead of blood.
Now I bleed in two places:
from what you did
and from what she said.
The field is empty now.
But I am still here.
They can say what they want.
They can rewrite the night.
They can bury it under rumors.
and call it something softer.
I remember the stars spinning.
I remember the grass bending.
I remember the way my body froze
When it learned it was no longer safe.
And I am still here.
not because it didn't break me.
But because it didn't end me.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 9:37 PM UTC
I am still here,
Everyone has left while I am
stuck in the field.
The grass remembers the shape of my body,
bent and broken into it.
The earth pressed cold against my back
like it was trying to swallow what happened whole.
glass blades bent,
stars spinning around.
The sky didnt blink.
The moon didn't move.
You walked away
while I was left to bleed,
left counting constellations
So I wouldn't count what you were doing to me.
blood pooling.
thicker than molasses.
sticky between the roots and dirt,
like the ground itself was trying to hold me there.
I screamed into the soil
because no one else would listen.
My voice is buried deeper
than the footprints left behind.
and then the worst part-
not the grass,
not the weight of you,
not even the silence after-
but her.
my bestfriend.
My almost sister.
Taking my story in her hands
and twisting it until it fits her comfort.
She said I caused it.
said I lied.
handed my pain to my own brother
like it was gossip instead of blood.
Now I bleed in two places:
from what you did
and from what she said.
The field is empty now.
But I am still here.
They can say what they want.
They can rewrite the night.
They can bury it under rumors.
and call it something softer.
I remember the stars spinning.
I remember the grass bending.
I remember the way my body froze
When it learned it was no longer safe.
And I am still here.
not because it didn't break me.
But because it didn't end me.
telling this story is part of reclaiming what was mine: my memory, my truth, and my voice. I am still here- not untouched, but unerased. speaking about it does not re open the wound- silence does. This is me refusing to carry the shame that was never mine.
If this story hits a little close to home. I want you to know you are not alone. I hope these words remind you of the strength and bravery you have today. Your story deserves to be heard.