The Feed

“The hardest thing a wounded child learns is how to stop apologizing for surviving.” There are photographs of me smiling that still feel dishonest to look at. Lipstick perfect. Hair pinned into obedience. Body pulled upright by discipline and fear. Everyone said I looked beautiful. Nobody asked why my eyes looked tired even when I was young enough to still believe adults were supposed to protect you. Dear “To the expectations that wore your face,” I used to think if I achieve

“Some words do not die when unspoken they linger, learning the shape of your silence.” I kept them. Not out of longing don’t romanticize me like that but because paper does what people don’t. It stays. Each envelope a quiet witness. Corners softened by years of almost. Ink bled where my hands trembled, where I pressed too hard, as if pressure alone could force truth through a body that had already decided to survive by swallowing it whole. There are sentences here that still