Parole Board

She stands before the panel,
their faces etched with indifference,
as if justice could be weighed
on scales too clean to touch truth.

She reads her statement
voice trembling,
each word chosen carefully.
She names him,
recounts what he did.
She cries, takes a sip of water,
recovers her composure.

She reads about his hands,
his betrayal,
the innocence he stole.
Recounts unspeakable horrors,
years of counseling,
an almost suicide.

She speaks for the little girl
who hid in corners
and learned to make herself
smaller than the pain.
She speaks for the grown-up girl
who never asked for this fight,
but now holds her ground
like a fortress rebuilt from ruin.

They glance down at papers,
statistics, the time he has served,
as if healing is somehow measured
in years behind bars.
She knows better.
There is no parole for her,
no reprieve from her wounds.

When she finishes,
the silence echoes louder than his guilt.
She does not look at him.
She does not need to.
Her truth is a verdict
she will carry
long after they decide
whether to set him free.

Time served will never be enough.