Her eyes know more
than her mouth can say.
It wraps around her
like a second skin.
I recognize it.
I wore it once.
I offer pieces
of my own hurt,
just to show
that words can survive
what was done to us.
I tell her it wasn't your fault.
She doesn't believe me.
Not yet.
But she holds those syllables
like smooth stones in her palm,
feeling their shape,
their weight,
the way they don't cut.
And tomorrow,
maybe,
she will try her own.
Maybe they will be crooked,
misshapen.
The first words always are.
I will stay beside her,
just listening
for the moment
when her silence
softens into sound.
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