She Never Belonged to Their Hands
She was raised in a house
where friendship had no gender,
where a hand was just a hand,
and trust was not a danger.
No one taught her
that some smiles hide hunger,
that some eyes don’t see a soul—
they only search for a body to conquer.
She grew up believing
that hearts were simple things,
that love was soft and sacred,
not tied to flesh or strings.
Then she fell in love.
And life whispered a cruel truth:
sometimes what we call “forever”
is only desire wearing the mask of youth.
She learned that not every touch is love,
not every closeness is pure,
and some people hold you tightly
only because they are unsure.
Then came a man with wounded pride,
who couldn’t accept “no.”
So he painted her as the villain
because rejection bruised his ego.
Then she loved again—
a love that felt honest and rare.
Neither was wrong,
but misunderstanding filled the air.
Two hearts, both genuine,
lost in thoughts they couldn’t explain.
Still, she keeps a quiet hope
that someday love will return again.
And when the nights grew heavier,
when silence became too loud,
she entered a virtual world
where she could disappear into the crowd.
Not to seduce.
Not to deceive.
But to speak the words
she could never say with her sleeve.
To strangers, she was just a voice,
a soul with no face, no name.
For one night, she could be honest
without carrying society’s shame.
She wasn’t selling her body.
She wasn’t stealing hearts.
She was simply searching for comfort
while quietly falling apart.
But society looked at her wounds
and called her characterless.
As if pain becomes impurity
when carried by a girl in distress.
when a man seeks attention, he is lonely.
When a woman does, she is blamed.
How strange that the world punishes.
She is not a ****.
She is not cheap.
She is a storm in human form
who learned to smile while she weeps.
She is the girl who trusted deeply,
who loved with all she knew,
who was broken by the world,
yet still remained true.
And if society cannot accept her
because she chose to survive,
then perhaps society is the one
that never truly learned what it means to be alive.
Because a woman’s worth
is not measured by who she talks to at night,
but by how she keeps her heart soft
after losing every fight.
So let them judge.
Let them misunderstand.
She knows the truth—
she never belonged to their hands.
She belongs to her scars,
to her hope,
to the love she still carries inside.
And that is not shame.
That is courage.
That is a soul
that refused to die.
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