I Am Her

At seventeen, her voice lived only in echoes—
a language of trembling and restraint.
She spoke without sound, filling empty rooms
with the weight of what she couldn’t say.

Each sunrise reopened the same ache,
an old wound disguised as routine.
She moved through the days like a shadow
searching for something solid to lean on.

There were nights she learned
that even the body can hold its breath for years.
She carried blame that was never hers—
folded it neatly, wore it like armor,
thinking it kept her safe.

For years, she mistook quiet for peace.
She built her sanctuary out of silence,
believing stillness meant safety.
But stillness can be its own cage.

Now, she returns to those familiar corners of her mind,
to free herself from the walls that held her.
Instead of reliving the pain,
she gathers the fragments she once abandoned.
She meets the girl she used to be,
and together they learn to breathe the same air again.

The younger one still flinches at her own voice,
but the older one stays beside her, steady.
She listens, she forgives.
She teaches her that healing isn’t forgetting—
it’s remembering without breaking.

And when they walk side by side,
the air feels lighter.
The silence is no longer loud.
What was once a whisper becomes something holy—
a voice that finally belongs to them both.