O fragile body,

temple of soft skin and wildfire spirit,

how many times have you been unwrapped

by hands that mistook possession for love?

O heart that loved too deeply,

you were taught that love

meant giving,

and giving,

and giving

until you were nothing but an echo

in someone else’s mouth.

If only this world could show me a little more mercy—

not bind me in ribbons of silence,

not cradle me in the arms of men

who kissed me only to conquer me,

who took me home to tear me open,

who snapped photos of my trust

and passed them around like trophies

won in a war I didn’t know I was fighting.

O the first one—

he called me gorgeous,

dressed me up and undressed me faster,

used me like a mirror for his pride.

Said he loved me.

Touched me without asking.

Claimed my body as stage,

his audience full of shadows.

And I smiled—because I didn’t know

love wasn’t supposed to hurt like that.

And the second—

how he clutched me with tender fists,

called me his,

not like a partner,

but like a belonging.

He took, too.

Took what wasn’t offered.

And I stayed.

Because I thought

love was surviving silence.

Because I thought

if it happened again, it must be me.

O cruel repetition—

why must pain repeat its own reflection?

Why was I made a lesson

for men who never learned how to be human?

And still, I hear them—

the ones who whisper,

who spread my name like ash

when I dared to leave.

“Unstable.” “Liar.” “Used goods.”

Their words sharpened to knives

while I stitched my spirit back together

in a room no one saw.

O mind—how they bent you.

Said your voice was too much,

your tears too loud,

your needs too heavy.

They gaslit you into doubt,

into obedience,

into believing you were lucky to be chosen at all.

And still—still you rise.

O woman forged in fire,

still standing on scorched ground,

still daring to call your pain sacred,

still believing mercy might find you yet—

You are not ruined.

You are not weak.

You are not what they did to you.

So here I write for you,

in reverence, in rage,

in the rhythm of your breath—

an ode to the girl

who thought it was love,

and the woman she’s becoming

who finally knows the difference.