©ESR 2026

⚠️**Content Advisory** Strong tones of childhood neglect and abuse

I was born to a woman who flinched at my cry,

who swore the air changed when I entered it,

soured like milk left in summer heat.

She fed me regret in rusted spoonfuls,

her lullabies slurred through teeth stained by pills and fury,

telling me I was the accident that ruined her second chance.

I was five when I learned to make myself small,

to fold like paper in corners that didn’t creak,

to breathe without noise when strange boots stomped through the hall.

I never met my father.

She called him a mistake with a smirk that curled like smoke,

and each time I asked,

her eyes became shut windows.

All I know is I carry his shadow in my face,

because sometimes she’d look at me

and her mouth would curl like she was about to spit.

There were always men.

Not the kind who ask your name.

The kind with heavy hands and breath that stuck

to walls long after they left.

They weren’t there for me,

but I learned not to cry when the door cracked open at night.

I learned what it meant when the hallway stayed dark too long.

So I grew older,

but not up.

I wore armor made of silence,

sewed strength into the seams of my smile,

and gave pieces of myself to people who only knew how to take.

Even at work—

that place I thought would be different,

I found myself cornered by the same kind of man,

just with cleaner shoes and a contract in hand.

He made me feel seen,

until the price of being seen

was giving up pieces I’d barely grown.

I got out.

Again.

But now the world feels like one long hallway,

and every door I try is locked from the inside.

I don’t know what love feels like.

Not the kind in songs or books.

Not the kind that presses against your spine

in the dark just to say I’m here.

I ache for it.

Like a ghost limb.

Like something I lost before I had it.

I want someone who wants me

not in spite of my ruins,

but because of them.

I want fingertips that don’t bruise,

a mouth that doesn’t lie,

a gaze that doesn’t strip me bare just to leave me colder.

I want to be touched,

not used.

I want to be known

in the way fire knows the wick.

In the way rain knows windows.

But nights are long,

and the mirror is cruel.

And some days,

I think I was never meant for love.

Just echoes.

Just survival.

If someone finds this,

I wasn’t trying to be poetic.

I was just trying

to be real

somewhere.

To leave proof I was here,

and still hoping.

Even if hope feels like

one last thread

between me and

the fall.