What They Didn't See
It didn’t start with fists.
It started with tone.
A pause before my name,
a sigh that made me feel heavy.
“You’re too sensitive.”
They said it softly,
like concern,
like love wearing a disguise.
Jokes sharpened over time.
Laughter aimed just low enough
to miss the heart
but bruise the spirit.
Then came the Silence,
days used as punishment,
absence dressed as peace.
I learned to apologize
for needs I hadn’t spoken.
Words became rooms with no exits.
Gaslight curtains drawn so tight
I questioned my own reflection.
Was I wrong…
or just taught to doubt myself?
Control didn’t always shout.
Sometimes it whispered rules:
who I could be,
who I could love,
how small I should stay
to be kept.
Emotional hands leave marks
you can’t photograph.
They live in flinches,
in over-explaining,
in the fear of raising your voice
even when you’re alone.
I stayed longer than I should have.
Hope is loyal like that.
But survival eventually speaks louder
than love misunderstood.
Healing began the day
I stopped asking for permission
to feel.
The day I named the harm
without softening it.
This is not bitterness.
This is clarity.
This is me reclaiming language
that was once used to erase me.
If this sounds like you,
know this:
abuse doesn’t need bruises
to be real.
And your voice,
once taken,
was always meant
to return.
One Love, One Feather. 🪶
#abuseawareness
#verbalabuse
#emotionalabuse
#healingwords
#survivorstories
#findingmyvoice
#spokenpain
#poemiacommunity
Y