don’t call it healing.
call it what it was,
a reckoning.
a ritual.
a goddamn bloodletting.
i didn’t “process” my trauma.
i gutted it.
bare-handed.
in the dark.
with no guide but the ghosts
that fucked me up to begin with.
they buried me in silence
and called it love.
taught me to be small
so i wouldn’t be hurt,
then hurt me anyway.
so now, i hurt,
but prettier.
with ropes.
and rules.
and the kind of pain
that asks first.
you think this is kink?
nah.
this is resurrection.
this is me crawling out of my own mouth
wearing the skin of every “shhh”
they ever forced on me.
you ever scream into a pillow
so loud the house forgets its shape?
you ever let someone choke you
just enough
to remind your body
what wanting to live feels like?
i write like i fuck,
with everything i was never allowed to say.
with hands that once flinched
but now hold steady
as i carve poems into my ribs.
this isn’t erotica.
this is exorcism.
this is me
sliding the knife in slow
just to see which part of the pain
still flinches.
call it dark.
call it too much.
i call it mine.
and i’ll never
fucking
whisper
again.
– Anais
AnaisWrites 