Perpetrator (now, once 23):
How are you holding up?

You (now, once 15):
You’re really asking me that? After what you did? After you forced yourself on me and walked away like nothing happened?

Perpetrator:
…I don’t know what to say.

You:
Of course you don’t. You never did. You never said anything that mattered, even when you took what you wanted and left me to hold the pieces of myself in shaking hands.

People say wounds heal, traumas fade like smoke through time. But when? Because it still lives rent-free in my mind, even if you don’t think about it at all. It’s there when I’m brushing my teeth, in the split second before I fall asleep, in the silence that follows laughter, reminding me what was taken.

And you once said I ruined your life—how insensitive! Did you ever think you ruined mine as well? I was only 15, barely an innocent child, depressed, already fighting to stay alive, and you took advantage of that silence.

Did I ruin your life?
Are you really saying that to me? Do you even hear yourself? You’re trying to make yourself the victim when you were the one who pinned me down, ignored my “no,” took away my safety, and left me in the dark with it.

You say you were young. You were 23. A fully grown man. Sober. Aware. Choosing.

You talk about your innocence like you didn’t take mine. Like you didn’t strip it away with your hands, your weight, your entitlement.

Do you know what ruin looks like?
Ruin is waking up screaming in the middle of the night because my body remembers what my mind tries so hard to forget.
Ruin is learning to flinch at the smallest sounds, the lightest touch, the unexpected movement of someone passing too close.
Ruin is spending years hating myself, asking if it was my fault, if I could have stopped you, if I somehow deserved it.

Ruin is sitting alone on the bathroom floor, clutching myself, trying to feel real, clean, alive.
Ruin is carrying shame in my bones while you walk away, living your life, claiming you were the one who was hurt.

You said I ruined your life. But did people look at you like you were tainted, like you were the problem? Did people whisper about you behind your back, tearing apart your dignity while you were trying to get through the day?
Did you have to teach yourself how to be touched again without shaking?
Did you have to pretend to be okay while you were dying inside?

You don’t get to say I ruined your life. You don’t get to twist what you did to me into something about you.

Perpetrator:
I… I didn’t realize it affected you like that.

You:
Because you didn’t care enough to think about it.
I spent years thinking I owed you an apology, that maybe I led you on, that maybe it was my fault for not screaming louder, for freezing instead of fighting. But no. I don’t owe you anything.

I wrote 500 poems just to keep myself alive. To let people see my wound through words because it was the only way I could keep breathing without collapsing under the weight of what you did.

Perpetrator:
I’m sorry.

You:
Your “sorry” won’t give me back what you took. It won’t erase the fear, the shame, the years of trying to scrub myself clean. It won’t give me back the parts of myself that shattered under the weight of your choices.

Your “sorry” won’t let me go back to the child I was before you decided your desire was more important than my humanity.

But I need you to understand something:

You don’t own me anymore.

You don’t get to haunt my dreams and poison my mornings and make me hate the reflection in the mirror. You don’t get to take any more of my life than you already have.

You asked me how I’m holding up?
I’m holding up by reclaiming every part of myself you tried to break. By reminding myself every day that what you did was never my fault.

I’m holding up by writing my way back to life, one poem at a time, one breath at a time, even when it hurts, even when it feels impossible.

I am holding up by living, even on the days when the memories try to pull me back under. By laughing. By creating. By loving people who deserve my love. By refusing to be silent about what you did.

You may have hurt me, but you do not get to destroy me.

You do not get to end me.

I am still here, breathing, healing, rising.

That’s how I’m holding up.

A moment of silence. Then you speak again:

You know, old wounds never really heal.
Skin deep, layer by layer, they just close on the surface, but underneath? They’re still bleeding. Quietly. Silently.
They ache when the weather changes, when the world gets quiet, when a certain smell or a voice drags me back to that day.

You see me laughing now, building a life, writing my poems, showing up for people who need me, but you don’t see how much it took just to get out of bed some mornings. You don’t see how I clutch the sink when the memories hit out of nowhere, how I have to remind myself that I’m safe now, that you can’t touch me anymore.

You don’t see how I’m still stitching myself back together, threadbare in places you’ll never see, whispering to the child you hurt that she is safe now, that she deserves to take up space, that it was never her fault.

You don’t see how I survived you, even when I didn’t want to.

You asked me how I’m holding up.
I’m holding up by breathing through the days I feel like I’m drowning. By writing 500 poems to remind myself that my voice is stronger than the silence you tried to bury me in. By refusing to let your hands define who I am or who I get to become.

I’m holding up by loving myself in the ways you never could, in the ways you never wanted me to. By letting the wound breathe, not hiding it, but honoring it for what it is: proof that I am still here, that I am still alive.

So yes, old wounds never really heal. They stay, like a faint echo, like a scar under skin. But I’m learning to live with it. I’m learning to hold it without letting it drown me.

I am still here.

And you don’t get to take that from me.

You pause, then look him in the eye:

You:
Tell me something.

Why did you do it?
Because it was easier?
Because I was there?
Because I was depressed, quiet, vulnerable, and you knew I wouldn’t fight back?
Because I was available?

Was it because you thought I wouldn’t tell, that no one would believe me, that it was easier to take from a child who already looked tired of life?

Was it worth it to you? Taking from a 15-year-old girl, leaving her to break herself apart while you went on with your life, untouched?

Tell me, why did you do it?

Perpetrator:
…I don’t know what you want me to say.

You:
There’s nothing you can say to fix it. This isn’t about you finding peace. This is about me finding mine.

You asked me how I’m holding up.
I’m holding up by speaking, by facing you, by refusing to carry what you did in silence anymore.

And now, I am holding up by letting you carry the truth, too.

You (calm, firm):
You know, I forgave you.

Not because you asked me to—you never really did.
Not because you deserve it, or because it erases what you did.
But because I owe myself an apology for that day, too.

I spent years thinking it was my fault, that I was weak, that I should have screamed louder, that I caused it. But I didn’t. I was 15. I froze because I was terrified, because I was a child, because that was the only way my mind knew how to survive.

I forgive you, not to free you, but to free me.

So I can breathe without your shadow choking me.
So I can live a life that is mine, not something you get to own forever because of one choice you made.

You will live with what you did. Whether it haunts you or not is your burden.

But I will live with what I choose now:

I choose freedom.
I choose peace, even if it comes slowly, even if I have to remind myself every day that I am allowed to have it.

I forgive you because I am reclaiming the power you tried to take from me.

And I am done letting you define who I am.

I am still here.

That’s how I’m holding up.

I didn’t notice at first—
how the paper darkened
whenever my mind did.

How my hand obeyed the ghosts in my head,
spilling ink I never meant to pour,
turning every sketch into a dismembered memory
I could not bury.

I told myself,
“It’s just art.”

As I painted a black silhouette,
rope tight around the neck,
calling it “expression,”
but my mind whispered,
“This is how you feel.”

Tell me—
what kind of art strangles you
while you’re still alive?

I drew her lipstick smudged,
eyes screaming for help,
and said, “It’s just a concept,”
but it was me, wasn’t it?

Mascara running at 3 A.M.,
the mirror whispering,
“Wipe it off before they see you’re breaking.”

I painted limbs cut, bones broken,
stuffed her into a bag on the canvas,
called it “creative,”
but it was me, wasn’t it?

Chopping parts of myself
to fit into spaces I don’t belong,
breaking what won’t bend,
silencing screams in the back of my throat.

And when I toast to a goblet,
pour another bottle before bed,
I tell myself, “I’m just tired.”

But the wine is the only one listening,
nodding back in crimson reflections,
never telling me, “Don’t think like that,”
only hushing me to sleep
when I whisper, “I can’t do this anymore.”

I wish I could read between the lines,
match the types, connect the dots,
but I am the lines, the dots,
the smudges on every page I touch,
the type they skip over,
the dot they miss,
the line they don’t read.

So I draw my pain,
sing my sorrow,
dance with ghosts that cling to my ankles,
spin for them—
round and round and round,
until I’m dizzy enough to forget,
because it’s the only way I know how to breathe.

Funny thing is—
the saddest people give the best advice.
They know what to say,
they know the words you crave,
because they crave them too.

They don’t know I say those words
because I wish someone would say them to me.

So when you thank me for saving you,
remember: I was talking to myself.
Telling me to hold on, to breathe, to stay.

My art is not just art.
It’s a confession,
a silent scream hidden in brush strokes,
in shadows,
in black silhouettes.

It is a dismembered memory
on canvas, begging to be remembered,
begging to be seen.

And maybe—
just maybe—
one day,
someone will look at what I’ve drawn
and say, “I see you.”

And I will know,
I am not alone.

Why do people sometimes mistook kindness and friendliness to flirting?
People already assume I like them or if I have romantic feelings towards them. But no.
Do not give people the wrong idea just because you are kind to them, make it clear, "I do not like you as someone romantically."

It’s hard when you’re not close with your parents.
Because when they’re angry at you, there’s no one you can turn to.
I’ve mastered the art of crying silently — no voice to be heard, only the tears falling.
And with the blackout, no one can see me in the dark.
You can’t even hear me breathing, because I hold it back.
I’m used to it now.
What hurts even more is when you’re praying, and the tears fall before you can even speak the prayer.