I wore the silence like a skin,

it crept in slow, then settled in.

Not fists, not bruises, just a glance,

a word, a threat wrapped in romance.

He didn’t shout; he rearranged

my thoughts until they sounded strange.

Was I too loud? Too weak? Too much?

He’d answer questions with a touch

a cold one, quick to let me know

how far his quiet rage could go.

He built a world where I was small,

where guilt and shame stood ten feet tall.

I stayed because I couldn’t see

where he ended, and where was me.

Because apologies came fast,

and softer than the screaming past.

Because “you’re crazy” felt like truth,

And every fight erased my youth.

I didn’t leave, because I learned

to twist the pain and call it earned.

Because love taught me to obey,

to hope, to break, and then to stay.

Because no one saw the war inside,

where part of me had slowly died.

And leaving meant I’d have to face

the wreckage of a hollow place.

But now I write, and now I breathe,

and every word helps me unweave

the knots he tied around my name and slowly, I release the blame.

So maybe I didn’t leave back then, but I’m not her. I’m me again.

-🦩