You never hit me
not really, not quite.
But your hands knew the shape of control,
fingers pressing warnings into my skin,
gripping just enough to make me still.
Your words cut deeper anyway.
Soft at first, then sharper,
until I could barely tell where I ended and your anger began.
I learned to measure my breath, to shrink, to fold,
to make myself small enough to fit inside the space you allowed.
But even silence wasn’t safe.
Even stillness had its punishments.
And the worst part?
I almost believed I deserved it.
Almost.
Until the day my own name felt foreign on my tongue.
Until I saw my reflection and didn’t recognize the girl at all.
So I left.
Not all at once, not bravely, but in pieces,
collecting the parts of me you tried to erase.
And now I am learning to take up space.
To speak without trembling,
to breathe without permission.
You never hit me
not really, not quite.
But I am still healing from your hands.
March 2025