Beneath the weight of silence,
she carried the broken pieces.
Jagged shards pressed against her ribs,
aching with the sharpness of memory.
In the quiet of her solitude,
where no one demanded her words,
she learned to gather herself,
to write a new story
in the form of a poem.
Her trembling hands
wrote words of exploration,
to cradle the bruised parts,
turn them from wounds to be hidden,
into truths she could live beside.
Breath became a rhythm,
a prayer for her own survival.
Each inhale pulling shadows apart,
each exhale stitching threads of light
in their place.
The girl who once felt stolen
started writing poems about hope,
about the future, about strength.
Not because her scars healed,
but because she owned them.
And when she learned to smile again,
it was not to forget what was taken,
but to remember the strength
it took to find her way back
to the childhood she lost.
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