I have these…childhood memories.
I remember;
Tears.
Fear.
Raised voices.
A broken windshield.
A singed curtain.
Broken hearts.
Broken vows.
And so, so many broken promises.
A room that was mine and also not mine.
A door that never felt like it closed.
Walls that learned to listen.
Drawers that held their breath.
I learned silence like a second language,
and tried to follow your lead.
Your voice became my voice.
I smiled when I wanted to frown.
I made myself smaller
in places that should have been safe.
“She’s my favourite.”
So I escaped
to where you couldn’t reach me—
in the corners of my mind,
to stories that never knew your name…
or your kind.
Places you could never follow.
Worlds that felt like mine.
I remember your hands—
not where I want them.
I remember the sharpness
of footsteps in the hall.
The sound of keys—
how even that
could make my stomach drop.
"Is this going to be a good night,
or a bad one?"
And I remember his voice,
too close again.
I hoped, stupidly, he might’ve changed.
But he hasn’t.
He never will.
And when he spoke, I trembled.
Not because I didn’t know—
but because I did.
Because I’d heard it all before.
Those saccharine words,
dripping—
sickly sweet…empty.
"I'm sorry,"
falling out of your mouth
like it cost you nothing.
And I used to hope you meant it.
That maybe this time
you’d keep your word.
But you didn’t.
You never did.
Another promise,
broken.
I trace the shape of the memories
only when I choose to.
Some still ache when I touch them.
Some don’t belong to me alone.
But I am still here.
And this room—this one—
is mine.
You haunted everything.
But not this.
Not now.
This part of me—
is yours no longer.
Not in this room.
Not in these walls.
Not in me.
This one’s hard to summarize.
It’s a poem about remembering—on my own terms. About carrying what happened, but refusing to carry the blame.
I wrote this to reclaim something. A room. A voice. Myself.
If you’ve lived something like this… I see you. And I’m still here, too.
