˚₊‧꒰აBri.໒꒱‧₊˚

where every unanswered question still lives,

where every wound waits for someone

to simply ask,

“What happened to you?”

But no one ever does.

Instead, they hear the loudest voices,

believe the easiest stories,

and leave me carrying a truth

that no one seems willing to hold.

The people who were supposed to protect me

became the ones I feared the most.

Love felt conditional,

home never felt like home,

and silence became the safest language

I ever learned to speak.

I searched for justice,

for someone to understand,

for one person to tell me

that none of this was deserved.

Instead, I found blame.

I found people who called me dramatic,

too sensitive,

too quiet,

or too broken,

without ever wondering

what made me that way.

Now I carry that ache everywhere.

It follows me into happy moments,

whispering that they won’t last.

Every smile feels borrowed.

Every laugh feels temporary.

Even peace makes me nervous,

because I’m always waiting

for it to disappear.

Sometimes I wonder

what kind of person I would’ve become

if kindness had found me first.

If my heart had learned

that love wasn’t supposed to hurt,

that family wasn’t supposed to feel

like another battlefield.

I don’t want revenge anymore.

I only wish someone

would look past the silence,

past the smile I’ve learned to wear,

and simply say,

“I believe you.”

Maybe that would never erase the pain,

but it would remind me

that not every heart chooses

to misunderstand another.

Until then,

I’ll keep carrying wounds

no one can see,

holding together the pieces of myself

that the world never noticed were falling apart,

hoping that one day

the pain won’t follow me everywhere I go,

and that happiness will finally stay