Not Yet A Victim

Her dad was her first king, He made the rules; anything else was counterfeit. A precious figurine, yet a knight, Kept just out of reach but always ready to fight. Her mom was her first teacher, Teaching her to stay calm, Saying, “Don’t cry when it’s not yet time,” Telling her to swallow the seeds of depression That threatened to claw their way out of her intestines. Her sisters taught her how to lie, Preparing her to survive a life they’d mastered. Her uncle, staring from across the table, Wore smiles that left promises she learned to disdain. Family was a word she carefully cut out of her dictionary, So she wouldn’t believe it had a place in her world. Yet she hadn’t suffered enough. Her pain stayed stuck in her throat, And at night, she choked, On forgiveness, she should offer, On patience to believe it would get better. Because wasn't someone else's life worse than hers? On nights like these, she rolled in bed, Her body twisting as pain carved its way from her stomach. Each breath was a battle against the tightening in her chest. Her fingers gripped the sheets, Sinking into the fabric as if it could hold her together. Her heart pounded in her ears, Her throat tight with unshed tears. A low whimper escaped her lips, But no tears followed. “It’s not real,” she told herself. Her pain was just an echo, Because her life had been easy— Her sisters had it worse. She hadn’t suffered enough, So why did this pain cling so tightly to her throat? It felt pathetic, really. Yet she lay there, Caught between what’s real and what isn’t. She didn’t deserve to grieve The life that could have been. Still, she dreamed of who she might have been, Untouched by this world. When the pain crept back again, She drowned herself in an “I’m okay.” Patting her back, she whispered, “Give it time.” Time heals all wounds, Right? So maybe it would heal her scratch— Her friends told her to seek therapy, But she didn’t think she qualified. Therapy was for those who wore scars like badges, Not for someone like her, Whose path was littered with whispers, not screams. It was a good life, right? So why did she desperately want to be broken? Why did she crave a “go ahead” to cry? She wanted to feel everything—or nothing at all. So she fought the darkness, Swam against the tide That threatened to drown her. Oh, she hadn’t suffered enough. Yet, at the snap of the alarm, She was back on her feet, Dead inside but alive In a world she never chose to live.