The Things She Didn’t Forget

The Things She Didn’t Forget

She didn’t forget the crack in the floor

where rain slipped through in winter storms

or how her mother’s hands would shake

as though the tea had done her harm

She didn’t forget the smell of bleach

scrubbed into skin, into clothes

how every Friday meant clean slates

though nothing clean would ever hold

She didn’t forget the hallway light

the sound of boots thrown down too hard

or how the silence after that

could bruise a child more than the scars

She remembered how her sister used to sing

loud and off-key with her back to the wall

as if sound could hold the room in place

as if being heard might stop the breaking

She remembered the boy who said

you could be anything, if you stopped hiding

and how she laughed like he’d told a joke

but held the line

and kept on writing

She remembered days when all she had

was the shape of her name and a key in her sock

and how sometimes safety isn’t a place

but a thought you won’t unlock

She remembered who she was

when no one else did

she built her bones from scraps of song

and stitched her days with stubborn thread

refused to beg, refused to run

She didn’t forget the ones who left

but she didn’t chase them either

she let their ghosts walk through her life

and learned to live beneath them

There is no throne in this woman’s tale

no soft redemption, no golden bell

but there is grit in her voice

and fire in her eyes

and that, to her, is enough

She didn’t forget the dark

she just stopped fearing it

And that’s how she won.

and ended her hell.