Between Bruises & Blooms

She has heard
every version of hell.

Children whispering
what monsters did
behind locked doors.

Women apologizing
for surviving.

Men swallowing shame
because someone taught them
victimhood
had a gender.

Still,
she sits beside them.

Still,
she lowers her voice
instead of raising it.

Still,
she looks into faces
that have forgotten
how to trust

and gives them
one thing
the world already stole—

choice.

There must be nights
when every story
follows her home.

When the dead
sit quietly
at the edge of her bed.

When every child
she could not save
knocks softly
inside her ribs.

But morning comes,

and she goes back.

Not because
she believes
she can rescue everyone,

but because sometimes

staying
is its own kind
of rescue.