When I look Back
When I look back,?it’s not in anger—?not always.?More like a storm I watch?through thick glass:?still loud,?but distant.?Still mine,?but not me.?Not anymore.
You were the first hands I knew,?but they didn’t teach me love—?only fear.?I flinched before I learned to speak.?I apologized for breathing.?And I thought that was normal.?Because you were “family.”?Because I was a child.
I learned how to disappear?without ever leaving.?How to keep secrets?by not naming them.?How to cry silently,?then pretend I didn’t.
Now, I carry that child inside me—?still waiting for the door to slam,?still bracing for the rage.?Even when the house is quiet,?even when no one’s there.?Especially then.
Sometimes I see you in the mirror.?Not your face,?but your anger,?your silence,?the way I talk to myself?when I fail.
And that scares me.?More than you ever did.?Because now?I’m the one in charge.?I decide the rules.?And healing—?it doesn’t come like a movie ending.?It comes in pieces.?Like learning to say,?“I deserved better,”?and actually believing it.
Some days,?I forgive you.?Not because you earned it.?But because I deserve peace.
Other days,?I’m still that kid—?small, scared,?searching for softness?in a world that burned me?too early.
But every day,?I choose not to be you.?And maybe?that’s what healing really is.
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