Fire

I remember your hand.
How it moved
like it had a right
to anything it touched.

You smiled,
called it a game.
And I was so young,
I thought not screaming
was some kind of strength.

Everyone loved you.
You fooled them all.
You laughed too loud,
hugged too long,
said things
that didn't sound like warnings
until later.
So much later.

I didn't know I wasn't safe
in my own home.
My own skin.
My own bed.

Now, when I say your name —
and yes, I still say it —
I say it with fire in my throat.
I spit it back at you
like a curse.

I am not yours.

I never was.
You took nothing
I did not take back
with blood,
with grief,
with the years
you don't get to have.

You thought the little girl
would stay quiet and small.

But she grew up.
She walks ahead of you now,
broken, yes,
but unashamed.

And when she looks back at you,

her eyes
burn.