The Corner

I remember the corner—

not the room, not the walls,

but the one sharp edge

I always found with my skin.

No matter how big the space,

my little body was drawn

to the only pain waiting.

Why always me?

I was the one who knew

how the house sounded at night,

how the fridge hummed loneliness

and the windows blinked silence.

I held my sister’s sleep

like it was breakable,

watched her chest rise and fall

like a small promise

I couldn’t afford to lose.

Mom never meant to bruise—

not my arms, not my heart.

But love under pressure

turns hard, turns loud.

If something cracked,

it was my fault.

If something fell,

it must’ve been my hands.

She loved me

too much to be gentle.

Too much to let me be a child.

Dad’s love was different—

not quieter, but steadier,

like a drum in my chest.

He stood at finish lines,

at report card tables,

telling me I was born

to win.

To climb.

To lead.

And I tried—

God, I tried—

not just for him,

but because I believed him.

Still, the corner stays—

sharp as ever.

Even now.

I pass rooms

and check for it

like instinct.

I don’t always bleed anymore,

but I flinch.

I remember being small

and feeling old.

I remember wishing

someone else could hold the night.

But I also remember

my sister’s hand in mine,

my father’s eyes proud as fire,

and even my mother,

saying nothing,

but standing at the stove

with tired love

warming the air.

This memory won’t leave.

It doesn’t fade—

it just shifts shape.

Sometimes a lesson.

Sometimes a scar.

Always honest,

in its own way.