Between Bruises & Blooms

There is always a room
with no windows,

a metal table,
two chairs,
a box of tissues
someone keeps replacing
because grief
never runs out.

This is where
the worst thing
that ever happened to you
becomes evidence.

Where your shaking hands
are asked for details.

Where strangers
write down
the color of the walls,
the hour,
the smell,
the sound you made
when you realized
no one was coming.

And somehow
you survive it twice—

once
when it happened,

and again
when you have to
say it out loud.

But across the table
someone listens.

Not with pity.

Not with disbelief.

Just quietly,
carefully,

as if your broken pieces
are still evidence
of a whole person.

And maybe
that is where healing starts—

not when the monster
is finally handcuffed,

but when someone
looks at everything
you survived

and says,

I believe you.