I left that town
like it was on fire,
like if I stayed one more night
I’d become ash—
just another quiet girl swallowed
by silence.
I changed my name.
Thought maybe
if I called myself something new,
the pain wouldn’t recognize me.
But memory doesn’t need a name.
It knows my face,
knows the shape of my breath
when I cry in the shower,
when I scrub skin that never feels mine
all the way down to bone.
He took something
he can’t ever give back.
And I carry it—
not like a scar,
but like a shadow.
Always behind me.
Sometimes ahead.
Sometimes curled next to me
in bed,
whispering things
I wish I could forget.
Every door creak is his voice.
Every scent in the hallway
pulls me backward.
I walk new streets,
in a new city,
with a new name
and still—
I feel his breath
on the back of my neck
when the wind shifts.
I want to feel clean.
God, more than anything,
I want to feel clean.
Not just bathed in water,
but in peace.
In forgetting.
In a silence that doesn’t scream.
I want my body
to stop flinching at kindness.
To wear softness again
without guilt.
To trust hands
without bracing for harm.
People say
“you’re strong, you survived,”
but survival feels like
never being able to relax again.
Like my own skin
became a map
I can’t stop tracing for damage.
I thought leaving would save me.
I thought becoming someone else
would make me new.
But the truth is,
the past packs light.
It fits in your chest,
your spine,
your dreams.
It goes where you go.
And still—
what I miss most
is the girl from before.
The one who didn’t check every shadow.
The one who laughed with her whole body.
The one who walked alone
and wasn’t afraid.
I don’t remember what it felt like
to be untouched,
to be whole.
I can only stare at old photographs
and wonder
if she’s gone for good,
or just hiding somewhere
deep beneath the ruin.
I want to go back.
Not to the place—
but to the version of me
that didn’t yet know
what it means
to be broken
and still breathing.
