The Quietest Crime

It began in a room,
Where the walls adorned my drawings,
Where my Legos lay scattered,
Where the air should have smelled of childhood,
Not fear.
I was too young to understand,
But old enough to feel the shame.

Hands that should have guided,
Became hands that took.
Words that should have comforted,
Became orders to stay silent.

I left my body,
I became the ceiling,
The crack in the wall,
The corner of the room,
Because it was easier than being me.

Afterward, like old letters,
I folded the memories,
Hid them in the attic of my mind.
But they never stayed put.
They crept out in the dark quiet night,
When there was no one to protect me from them.

I grew up in a world that felt unsafe,
Avoided mirrors because they showed me,
A skin I didn’t want to live in.
Flinched when people reached out to hug me.

I didn’t trust love, even when it was real.
I didn’t trust myself, because why hadn’t I stopped it?
Why hadn’t I screamed?
But I know better now—I was a child.
I was never supposed to fight monsters alone.
And yet—I did.

Healing doesn’t come easy.
Some days it’s a weight I can’t carry.
But I have learned to be kind,
To that younger version of me.
I write letters to her,
Light candles for her.
I hold her hand in dreams.
And I tell her, it wasn’t your fault.
You were always worthy—
Of love, peace and safety.

And now, I am learning,
To give her those assurances myself.
Because I am still here,
And that is no small feat.