She was thirteen.

Old enough to know, too young to fight.

His hands, a map of her stolen innocence,

Tracing lines that still burn in the dead of night.

He whispered lies, promises like poison,

And she, a fragile bird, forgot how to fly.

The world shrunk to a room, a touch, a terror,

And something inside her… began to die.

They say time heals, but scars, they just run deeper,

A constant echo in the chamber of her soul.

She learned to seek solace in fleeting moments,

A desperate hunger to feel… to be whole.

Each touch a phantom limb, a ghost of what was taken,

Each encounter a frantic, silent plea.

She chased shadows in crowded rooms,

Anything to escape the memory of her.

Sex became a drug, a twisted sacrament,

A temporary fix for a wound that wouldn't close.

She gave herself away in pieces,

To strangers, to lovers, to anyone who knows

How to make the silence scream a little less,

How to make the darkness flicker and fade.

But the darkness always wins in the end,

And she's left alone, in the bed she've made.

She's a survivor, not a victim,

Though some days, the difference is a thread.

She wear her history like a broken crown,

A constant reminder of the life she led.

But she is learning to reclaim the narrative,

To find her voice in the wreckage and the pain.

To piece together the fragments of her spirit,

And to whisper to that girl, “You are not in vain.”

This is not a story of shame, but of survival,

Of breaking the chains that tried to hold her down.

Of finding strength in the spaces in between,

And planting seeds of hope on barren ground.

She's still learning, still healing, still becoming,

But she's here, she's present, she is free.

And this echo in the chamber of her soul?

It will not define her. It will strengthen her.

The Wordist