His Hands

Being beaten and bruised I still found inner peace and a way out.

His hands were supposed
to be a place I could rest,
a shelter,
a promise,
a truth I could lean on.

But somewhere along the way
they changed.
What used to hold me
started to hurt me,
and the home I thought I’d found
turned into a place
I had to survive.

I learned real quick
that love ain’t love
when it comes with fear,
when you flinch at the sound
of footsteps,
when your own heartbeat
feels like warning bells.

But I also learned
that breaking someone
doesn’t mean they get
to own your broken pieces.
I gathered mine up,
one at a time,
and realized
I’m stronger than the hands
that tried to silence me.

His touch left bruises,
but it didn’t take my voice.
It didn’t take my fire.
It didn’t take me.

I walk forward now—
not untouched,
but undefeated—
proof that even the softest person
can rise out of the hardest pain
and never look back