Always No

I scream, but not loudly enough. My throat burns with every silent plea, every word I swallowed because I was scared someone would call me dramatic, difficult, or too much. I moved, but not boldly enough. I took tiny steps with shaking legs, pretending I wasn’t terrified of falling apart in front of people who only notice confidence when it’s loud and perfect. I cried, but not hard enough. The tears stayed soft against my skin, not nearly messy enough to prove how badly my chest ached beneath the surface. So everyone thought I was healing, when really I was just hiding it better. And once, I almost said no. The word sat heavy on my tongue,half-formed, trembling, desperate to exist. Still, I buried it the same way I buried everything else—quietly, apologetically, like my fear needed permission to matter. Will I ever be enough? Or will I always be the girl in the cage, holding memories I never asked to carry, flinching at shadows, at voices, at hands, trying to survive in a body that no longer feels safe? I reach my hands through the cracks, begging for someone to notice the bruises, the exhaustion, the way my heartbeat trembles every time I try to stand on my own again. And maybe that’s the cruelest part—not what was taken from me, but how long I blamed myself for it, convincing myself that pain only mattered if I could prove it was real enough to deserve care. So I sit with smoke in my lungs and tears in my teeth, wondering how much of myself I have to rebuild from the wreckage before I finally believe the words I needed someone else to say first: “It was never your fault. You deserved to be safe.”