CPTSD: Your Wound

It comes as a “joke,”

a quiet little cut—

words dressed in laughter

that never feel like love.

But I see it now:

the pattern,

the pull,

the need for a reaction

that was never mine to carry.

This was never about my body,

never about my worth—

only a reflection

of something unhealed in you.

So I choose stillness.

I choose distance.

I choose not to shrink

to make you comfortable.

I am not your wound.

I am the healing.

And I will not

become

small

again.

dg

Poems