It's not the memory
that hurts the most.
It's the way
I still blame myself
for surviving it.
I shrink in mirrors,
hide from a face, a body
that never feels
safe to own.
I tell people I'm fine,
a lie I’ve practiced
until it sounds
almost true.
They smile,
and I wonder
what they'd think
if they knew
what was done to me.
And how much of me
still feels ruined.
It is tragic that the innocent survivors of abuse carry shame that truly belongs only to the monsters who abused them. One hopes that much better times lie ahead for the protagonist in this poem.
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