Grip

If you asked me once,

I would have called it chaos—

the way hands shake

when anger walks in,

the way silence bites

like broken glass.

On our quiet evenings,

after laughter,

after the small comforts,

you said you felt safe

with me.

And I said thank you,

I said I try,

I said I would understand

if you didn’t.

My father taught me

to hide my tears,

to swallow the bruises of words,

to stand tall through storms I didn’t ask for.

But my mother—

she gave me soft hands,

a voice that could sing in fear,

a heart that could feel even in rage.

She raised me

to be a safe harbor,

and I carried that like armor,

like a fragile banner

against the world.

I could say I had been drinking—

but I hadn’t.

I could say it was just another fight

and I had never felt

so small, so unheard—

but words only claw at your skin.

The shame curls my body,

tightens my chest,

wraps my hands in a fist

I cannot release.

I have seen this story

too many times

to mistake it for fiction.

I can describe the flash of fear,

the palm to cheek,

the heart pounding,

the way courage falters

and returns slowly,

like the tide.

And now, I understand—

not just what a monster is,

but how it grows,

how it hides

inside the quiet corners

we think are safe,

and how love, patience, and care

can fight it,

if only we let them.