The Weight of Their Words
They stitch their whispers into my skin,
tight seams of blame, unraveling me.
I wear their questions like a second body,
heavy with the shape of accusation.
What were you wearing? (A name I did not choose.)
where were you standing? (On the fault line of his wants.)
why didn't you run? (My ribs were a locked door,
and fear turned the key in my throat.)
Their eyes, sharp as needles, thread me through-
patchwork girl, quilted in doubt.
My silence is a crime, my voice an
inconvenience.
I flinch beneath the weight of their words.
They tell me I carry ghosts in my mouth,
that my story is a wound best left unopened.
But I am tired of swallowing knifes
and pretending I am not bleeding.
So I let the truth spill ink on white sheets,
staining everything they wanted to keep clean.
Copyright © Catherine Gilley | Year Posted 2025
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