Little Me
Everything was quiet, still.
Nothing’s wrong yet.
She’s half-asleep on her mother’s bed,
dreaming about nothing in particular
until the lights turn off.
Silence surrounds her,
Until a belt unbuckles,
And she peeks with one eye.
Confused, what is he doing?
I see her peaceful, napping.
I want to reach for her,
but the room is made of glass.
Any sound could shatter her sleep,
her safety, her before.
So I stay where I am,
hand pressed against the wall,
and whisper through the tears:
You weren’t wrong.
You felt it.
You were right to feel lost.
To feel powerless.
She stirs,
as if some part of her
has been waiting decades
for someone to say that out loud.
#Trauma #PTSD #PTSDSupportAndRecovery #MentalHealth #MightyPoets
