You say you don’t remember.
The burn.
The cupboard.
The way the walls echoed back my voice and no one came.
Maybe you don’t.
Maybe forgetting is the only way you know how to survive.
But I remember everything.
I remember screaming so loud my throat bled. Not because I wanted attention—because I was terrified. Because your partner wasn’t just rough. He was violent. Because I was small, and scared, and unsure if I’d make it out of that room.
You used to tell people I was dramatic.
You laughed when I flinched.
You let him come back. Again. And again.
And I swallowed that.
I learned to stop asking for help.
I learned to wear silence like a second skin.
I learned that love meant endurance, not safety.
You say I turned out okay.
But okay people don’t cry when they hear a cupboard door slam.
Okay people don’t write songs to ghosts.
So no, Mum.
I don’t think you get to ask why I’m still angry.
Why I write the way I do.
Why I talk in riddles and sing in metaphors and carry grief like an heirloom.
Because you never asked why I screamed.
And now, I don’t write these letters for you anymore.
I write them for the kid who never got an answer.
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