I never saw the blood in the bathtub,
only the scars left behind.
Forgive and forget, they told her
as if she'd volunteered for this,
as if healing were the polite thing
to do for everyone involved.
They told her to hush,
Don't make it harder for the family.
As if her silence was a favor owed
to the uncle who split her in two.
She carried all of it
until she couldn't —
bruises her mind wouldn’t bury.
Her body, her voice, her heart
couldn't reclaim what was taken
by force in her own bed.
She bled until the world slipped sideways,
woke later in a room with gray walls,
just another failure.
And the sound of a clock ticking.
--
For my friend Anna (March 4, 2004 — December 22, 2024)
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