What I Wouldn’t Carry

I was twelve

And already tired of bleeding

For things I didn’t break.

Already mapping my bruises

Like constellations-

Trying to find some shape

In the violence.

She said,

“We know how he gets when he’s angry.”

Like I was the shield.

Like love meant learning

How to fold myself smaller

So someone can stand taller.

But that day,

My bones ached

Louder than my guilt.

And I said no.

Even with her eyes

Digging graves in me.

Then-

Words like a knife I still feel

Even when the skin looks healed:

“You make me wish I had an abortion.”

And silence fell

Like ash after fire.

I have carried that sentance

Like a second spine-

Twisted and unwanted,

But holding me up all the same.

I have tried

To become something worth keeping,

To be chosen,

Even if it meant

Never choosing myself.

But I remember.

I remember the weight of being

Too much to love

And not enough to save.

I remember that twelve-year-old

Who said no-

Not because it was safe,

But because she was

So goddamned tired.

And sometimes

That memory crawls back into my chest

To remind me:

I am not the shame.

I am not the sin.

I am the survivor.