#survivorvoice - Hello Poetry

I am the girl who learned early that perfect houses can hide jagged edges. I am the child who sat silent while the world looked in and called it safe. I am the one who remembers the smell of thick white milk that wasn’t meant for me, but I drank anyway. I am the girl who fell off bikes and was told to stop crying. I am the child who thought she would never belong until a second home showed her love could be patient, kind, and constant. I am the one who called two strangers Mum and Dad and learned what family could feel like. I am the woman who carries those lessons into motherhood. I am the mum who sees my children for who they are, who celebrates their victories, who comforts their falls, who holds them when the world cannot. I am the girl who began small, scared, silent, and became the protector, the guide, the heart that refuses to break for those I love. I am the proof that even jagged beginnings can shape a whole, strong heart.

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Mar 10

Mar 10, 2026 at 7:51 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Who I Am (Identity & Motherhood)

I am the girl who learned early that perfect houses can hide jagged edges. I am the child who sat silent while the world looked in and called it safe. I am the one who remembers the smell of thick white milk that wasn’t meant for me, but I drank anyway. I am the girl who fell off bikes and was told to stop crying. I am the child who thought she would never belong until a second home showed her love could be patient, kind, and constant. I am the one who called two strangers Mum and Dad and learned what family could feel like. I am the woman who carries those lessons into motherhood. I am the mum who sees my children for who they are, who celebrates their victories, who comforts their falls, who holds them when the world cannot. I am the girl who began small, scared, silent, and became the protector, the guide, the heart that refuses to break for those I love. I am the proof that even jagged beginnings can shape a whole, strong heart.

47

They were husband and wife, and they had a son, older than me. But they treated me like family. I called them Mum and Dad. I called their son my brother. I had toys. No one bullied me. They knew my favourite foods, what I loved to do. We went on family day outs. We went on holiday abroad. I won a medal and they were proud. Every drawing I made, every report at school, every small success, they noticed. Even when I was bad or made mistakes, they got down to my level and explained. They didn’t punish. They guided. They were patient. They made time for me. I felt accepted. I felt like I belonged. I wanted to stay there. That house, that family, that love— was the best part of my childhood.

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Mar 10

Mar 10, 2026 at 7:45 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

A Home That Felt Like Mine (Second Placement)

They were husband and wife, and they had a son, older than me. But they treated me like family. I called them Mum and Dad. I called their son my brother. I had toys. No one bullied me. They knew my favourite foods, what I loved to do. We went on family day outs. We went on holiday abroad. I won a medal and they were proud. Every drawing I made, every report at school, every small success, they noticed. Even when I was bad or made mistakes, they got down to my level and explained. They didn’t punish. They guided. They were patient. They made time for me. I felt accepted. I felt like I belonged. I wanted to stay there. That house, that family, that love— was the best part of my childhood.

36

When they stood beside my hospital bed with quiet voices and careful smiles, they told me I was going somewhere safe. Somewhere I could stay for a while. I thought that meant a family. A place where someone might finally want me. My room sat at the top of the stairs. White sheets pulled tight like nothing messy was allowed to exist. Everything spotless. Everything quiet. Everything perfect. I thought if I behaved well enough maybe they’d love me. Six months passed in that perfect house. Six months of learning that a place can look like a family without ever being one. The day they took me away I cried for the foster carer. Even a house that hurts you still feels like something when you’ve had nothing. But that house didn’t just take my hope. It taught me something much harder to unlearn. That sometimes the places meant to protect you are simply better at hiding the damage.

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Mar 10

Mar 10, 2026 at 7:35 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

The Perfect House(first placement)

When they stood beside my hospital bed with quiet voices and careful smiles, they told me I was going somewhere safe. Somewhere I could stay for a while. I thought that meant a family. A place where someone might finally want me. My room sat at the top of the stairs. White sheets pulled tight like nothing messy was allowed to exist. Everything spotless. Everything quiet. Everything perfect. I thought if I behaved well enough maybe they’d love me. Six months passed in that perfect house. Six months of learning that a place can look like a family without ever being one. The day they took me away I cried for the foster carer. Even a house that hurts you still feels like something when you’ve had nothing. But that house didn’t just take my hope. It taught me something much harder to unlearn. That sometimes the places meant to protect you are simply better at hiding the damage.

44

I have fought. I have bled. I have clawed the air for my children as if my bare hands could hold back a world that delights in breaking what it cannot bend. My little warrior… I carried you in my heart, in my arms, in every pulse of love I had. And still, the world took you, and my older boys drift like leaves down rivers I cannot reach. And I am left with whispers— “You are no different. You are them.” Am I? Do I carry the echoes of the parents who made me bleed, who left me raw and hollow, who asked nothing of themselves and yet demanded my life? I hate it. I hate the scars, the cracks, the nights that swallow me in silence. I have asked the cruelest questions: Why was I born? Why this fight, this chaos, this fire? But I rage. I rise. I am flame, I am storm, I am the pulse of defiance that will not bend, will not break, will not die. I walk through fire, through shadows that want to swallow me, through winds that try to tear me apart. I carry my little warrior like armor, like hope, like fury, through skies that spit lightning and ash. I am not perfect. I am not always enough. But I am still here. And being here is defiance. Being here is love. Being here is a war that I refuse to lose. For my little warrior. For the pieces of me that still believe. For the truth that no system, no shadow, no cruelty can take away: I am fire. I am storm. I am love. And I rise.

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Mar 8

Mar 8, 2026 at 1:59 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Rise of the Little Warrior

I have fought. I have bled. I have clawed the air for my children as if my bare hands could hold back a world that delights in breaking what it cannot bend. My little warrior… I carried you in my heart, in my arms, in every pulse of love I had. And still, the world took you, and my older boys drift like leaves down rivers I cannot reach. And I am left with whispers— “You are no different. You are them.” Am I? Do I carry the echoes of the parents who made me bleed, who left me raw and hollow, who asked nothing of themselves and yet demanded my life? I hate it. I hate the scars, the cracks, the nights that swallow me in silence. I have asked the cruelest questions: Why was I born? Why this fight, this chaos, this fire? But I rage. I rise. I am flame, I am storm, I am the pulse of defiance that will not bend, will not break, will not die. I walk through fire, through shadows that want to swallow me, through winds that try to tear me apart. I carry my little warrior like armor, like hope, like fury, through skies that spit lightning and ash. I am not perfect. I am not always enough. But I am still here. And being here is defiance. Being here is love. Being here is a war that I refuse to lose. For my little warrior. For the pieces of me that still believe. For the truth that no system, no shadow, no cruelty can take away: I am fire. I am storm. I am love. And I rise.

51

When the nights were loud and the house felt hollow, I almost disappeared into old patterns, old promises, old pain. I almost believed I was still that girl waiting at the window for someone to come home and choose me. But this time — I stayed. When the memories rose like smoke in my lungs, when my hands shook with the weight of everything no one saw — I stayed. Not perfectly. Not bravely. But deliberately. I sat with the ache instead of running from it. I let the tears fall without calling myself weak. I spoke gently to the child inside me who still flinches at silence. And I said, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” There were days I wanted to fold — to shrink, to hand my healing back to the people who dropped it. But I didn’t. I stayed. Because leaving myself was the one habit I refuse to keep. And slowly — quietly — the ground stopped shaking. Not because the past vanished. Not because the hurt erased itself. But because I chose to stand. To stay. To become the safety I searched for in everyone else. And that’s the part they don’t see — how powerful it is to remain with yourself.

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Feb 20

Feb 20, 2026 at 6:11 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

I Stayed

When the nights were loud and the house felt hollow, I almost disappeared into old patterns, old promises, old pain. I almost believed I was still that girl waiting at the window for someone to come home and choose me. But this time — I stayed. When the memories rose like smoke in my lungs, when my hands shook with the weight of everything no one saw — I stayed. Not perfectly. Not bravely. But deliberately. I sat with the ache instead of running from it. I let the tears fall without calling myself weak. I spoke gently to the child inside me who still flinches at silence. And I said, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” There were days I wanted to fold — to shrink, to hand my healing back to the people who dropped it. But I didn’t. I stayed. Because leaving myself was the one habit I refuse to keep. And slowly — quietly — the ground stopped shaking. Not because the past vanished. Not because the hurt erased itself. But because I chose to stand. To stay. To become the safety I searched for in everyone else. And that’s the part they don’t see — how powerful it is to remain with yourself.

58

Little do you know How I learned to cry without a sound Little do you know How I stopped expecting you around Little do you know I was breaking while you held your ground Little do you know I needed you that time Beneath the strength I wore to make you proud Was a child still screaming, not allowed Some nights I survived things I’ll never speak aloud Little do you know I needed you that time I stayed, I stayed When your whole world crashed in waves I stayed When you were drowning in your pain I stayed Put myself last, again and again But little did you see No one ever stayed for me Little do you know I carried burdens not my own Little do you know I fought those battles all alone Little do you know The cracks ran deeper than they’d shown Little do you know I needed you that time You call it distance, call it pride But where were you when I was barely alive? You ask for peace, for things to slide Like nothing ever fractured my mind I’ll heal, I’ll heal But healing doesn’t mean it’s sealed I’ll heal It doesn’t make the past unreal I’ll heal And I won’t shrink to fit what you feel Little do you know Love isn’t silence when someone’s low Little do you know Forgiveness isn’t pretending it didn’t show Little do you know I was the first to show And the last to receive What I gave so freely So little do you know I don’t hate you — I’ve just grown Little do you know I found my strength alone And I won’t beg to be seen anymore.

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Feb 20

Feb 20, 2026 at 5:58 PM UTC

I did not break. I adapted. The Watcher — eyes sharp, pulse wired, reading danger before it breathed. Paranoia, I called her. Trauma, she was. The Fire — love fiercely or lose everything. Cut first. Burn first. Strike first. Too much, I said. Fear of being left, she was. The Pleaser — soft voice, over-giving hands, apologising before words formed. Weak, I called her. Survival, she was. The Ghost — blank eyes, drifting, watching my own life like it belonged elsewhere. Broken, I called her. Protection, she was. The Shadow — heavy, quiet, pressing in, carrying pain that threatened to consume me. Shame, I called her. Survival, she was. The Fighter — back straight, pride stubborn, homeless but unbowed, fear in one hand, pride in the other. Cold, I called her. She was surviving. Years passed — doors closed. Trust shattered. Safety disappeared. Mind split into extremes — safe or unsafe, love or loss, forever or never. Nervous system alarmed. Every raised voice, every pause, every shadow a threat. I thought I was unstable. Difficult. Disordered. But I was dysregulated. Unhealed. Running from fires that were already over. Every mask had a job. The Watcher prevented danger. The Fire prevented abandonment. The Pleaser prevented conflict. The Ghost prevented collapse. The Shadow prevented being consumed. The Fighter prevented defeat. They kept me breathing when I did not know how to live. Healing came slowly — pausing when the chest tightened, questioning what was real, staying when survival screamed run. I am still healing. Some days the Watcher wakes first. Some days the Fire flares. Some days the Ghost drifts. Some days the Shadow presses heavy. But now I notice. Now I breathe. Now I choose. I do not hate the masks. They built me. They carried me. They survived for me. I am not just survival now. I am regulation in progress. Attachment learning safety. Nervous system slowly trusting that not every shadow is a threat. I am softer — but not weaker. Aware — but not ruled by fear. I am not cured. I am becoming. Stronger than any mask ever made me.

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Feb 20

Feb 20, 2026 at 4:33 AM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Built From the Masks I Wore

I did not break. I adapted. The Watcher — eyes sharp, pulse wired, reading danger before it breathed. Paranoia, I called her. Trauma, she was. The Fire — love fiercely or lose everything. Cut first. Burn first. Strike first. Too much, I said. Fear of being left, she was. The Pleaser — soft voice, over-giving hands, apologising before words formed. Weak, I called her. Survival, she was. The Ghost — blank eyes, drifting, watching my own life like it belonged elsewhere. Broken, I called her. Protection, she was. The Shadow — heavy, quiet, pressing in, carrying pain that threatened to consume me. Shame, I called her. Survival, she was. The Fighter — back straight, pride stubborn, homeless but unbowed, fear in one hand, pride in the other. Cold, I called her. She was surviving. Years passed — doors closed. Trust shattered. Safety disappeared. Mind split into extremes — safe or unsafe, love or loss, forever or never. Nervous system alarmed. Every raised voice, every pause, every shadow a threat. I thought I was unstable. Difficult. Disordered. But I was dysregulated. Unhealed. Running from fires that were already over. Every mask had a job. The Watcher prevented danger. The Fire prevented abandonment. The Pleaser prevented conflict. The Ghost prevented collapse. The Shadow prevented being consumed. The Fighter prevented defeat. They kept me breathing when I did not know how to live. Healing came slowly — pausing when the chest tightened, questioning what was real, staying when survival screamed run. I am still healing. Some days the Watcher wakes first. Some days the Fire flares. Some days the Ghost drifts. Some days the Shadow presses heavy. But now I notice. Now I breathe. Now I choose. I do not hate the masks. They built me. They carried me. They survived for me. I am not just survival now. I am regulation in progress. Attachment learning safety. Nervous system slowly trusting that not every shadow is a threat. I am softer — but not weaker. Aware — but not ruled by fear. I am not cured. I am becoming. Stronger than any mask ever made me.

93

You picked the wrong house to try and make an example of. Our dogs bark when we’re out — and suddenly you’re street patrol, noise control, self-appointed council role. But every night your doorstep’s a carousel — trainers on gravel, hoods pulled low, hands moving quiet but not subtle. Funny how your ears work selectively. You can hear a bark through two walls but not deals through your own front door. Selective outrage must be convenient. Because across the road your front garden turned fight night — grown women swinging pride, rolling in the grass, dignity spilling faster than their arguments. And somehow my dogs are the disruption? Let’s talk disruption. We don’t shout. We don’t host traffic. We don’t turn pavements into performance art. We don’t draw drama to our doorstep like it’s décor. We keep to ourselves. Not because we’re weak — because we’ve already survived too much noise. You see quiet and think push-over. You see private and think prey. That’s your mistake. These dogs you moan about? They stood by us when stability was temporary and the streets were colder than neighbourly smiles. They bark because they guard. They bark because they care. They bark because loyalty doesn’t come silent. And you — with your revolving door evenings and your garden gladiator episodes — think we’re the chaos? No. We’re the only house on this street not broadcasting dysfunction. You confuse restraint for fear. You confuse peace for weakness. You confuse our silence for permission. We don’t complain about your nightly kick-offs. We don’t document your drama. We don’t threaten letters. We mind our business. Maybe try it. Because we fought to get off the streets. We fought for this roof. We fought for this stability. And we’re not moving because you need someone quieter than you to feel powerful. If you want order — start at home. If you want silence — check your own volume. If you want to bully someone — find someone who hasn’t already survived worse than you. Wrong house. Wrong people. Wrong assumption. Peaceful does not mean powerless.

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Feb 14

Feb 14, 2026 at 11:52 AM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Wrong Door

You picked the wrong house to try and make an example of. Our dogs bark when we’re out — and suddenly you’re street patrol, noise control, self-appointed council role. But every night your doorstep’s a carousel — trainers on gravel, hoods pulled low, hands moving quiet but not subtle. Funny how your ears work selectively. You can hear a bark through two walls but not deals through your own front door. Selective outrage must be convenient. Because across the road your front garden turned fight night — grown women swinging pride, rolling in the grass, dignity spilling faster than their arguments. And somehow my dogs are the disruption? Let’s talk disruption. We don’t shout. We don’t host traffic. We don’t turn pavements into performance art. We don’t draw drama to our doorstep like it’s décor. We keep to ourselves. Not because we’re weak — because we’ve already survived too much noise. You see quiet and think push-over. You see private and think prey. That’s your mistake. These dogs you moan about? They stood by us when stability was temporary and the streets were colder than neighbourly smiles. They bark because they guard. They bark because they care. They bark because loyalty doesn’t come silent. And you — with your revolving door evenings and your garden gladiator episodes — think we’re the chaos? No. We’re the only house on this street not broadcasting dysfunction. You confuse restraint for fear. You confuse peace for weakness. You confuse our silence for permission. We don’t complain about your nightly kick-offs. We don’t document your drama. We don’t threaten letters. We mind our business. Maybe try it. Because we fought to get off the streets. We fought for this roof. We fought for this stability. And we’re not moving because you need someone quieter than you to feel powerful. If you want order — start at home. If you want silence — check your own volume. If you want to bully someone — find someone who hasn’t already survived worse than you. Wrong house. Wrong people. Wrong assumption. Peaceful does not mean powerless.

106