I remember her

I remember her;

Lost in a room behind a quiet door, she curled into the hush of pain— clutching her belly like it could hold her together, a little longer.

She was kneeling on a cold bathroom floor— no stars to guide, no voice to call. The silence loud with ache, her tears were salt on a quiet lips, her soul too bruised to shake.

She held the night with trembling hands, beneath the weight of shattered plans. She bled alone, her body screamed. She bit her tongue, the pain began; And the walls bore witness to her silence and grief. 


I remember her eyes searched the ceilings. Like maybe God was hiding— but all she sees is a man who sat still, who told her not to cry, as if it was a noise; and a sin to cry.

She bit down her sobs like they were secrets. Like silence would somehow hurt less than being heard by someone who didn’t care.

Her father sat just steps beyond, unaware of what went wrong to her own little one. A soul stripped bare from her own. She held her breath with a quiet grief she couldn’t name.

She stayed in a quiet ache of a choice made with trembling hands. She buried pieces of her heart. A part of her died that night. But still, she fought to live the life.

Now years may pass, and wounds may fade. But she will remember still— the girl who suffered silently and climbed the hardest hill.

So let her weep, or let her breathe, or sit in a quiet grace of choosing light of letting go, yet holding on; Of breaking, but not being gone.

And somewhere, beneath all that bleeding, she didn’t run from darkness. She stayed inside it, crumbling and strong— all at once.

For healing isn’t always loud, and grief can take its place.

And somehow, she made it back to me.