Survival
It doesn’t start with shattered skin,
But quiet rules that creep within.
A harsh voice; a watchful stare,
A leash disguised as loving care.
It edits you in subtle ways,
Your words; your clothes; your nights; your days.
Each, “I just worry” tightens more,
Until you’re smaller than before.
Your world contracts, the walls move in,
Your thoughts feel watched beneath your skin.
You learn the weight of every sigh,
The danger in a question, “Why?”
Your laughter fades; your edges blur,
You stop remembering who you were.
Your “no” dissolves to please; appease,
Your silence learned as expertise.
Now bruises bloom and blood is shown,
Yet something vital has been overthrown.
Not flesh or bone, but will and choice,
The quiet murder of a voice.
They take your trust, then take your name,
Rewrite your truth; reframe your pain.
You doubt your mind; your past; your sight,
Because they swear that wrong is right.
This is domestic violence, refined and slow,
A careful theft no one can show.
Hands clenched hard and gripping tight,
Starving the soul; denying light.
You forget the songs you used to sing,
Forget the life before just existing.
You shrink so well, you almost vanish,
A ghost trained daily not to panic.
They called it love; they called it fate,
But love does not erase; negate.
Love doesn’t ask you to be less,
Or turn your fear into a test.
And still, beneath the ash and dust,
The soul survives because it must.
Bruised and buried, yes, it’s true,
But erasure is not the death of you.
What’s taken can be named; reclaimed,
The lies undone; the truth unchained.
And one day you will stand and see,
They never owned your soul—you’re free.
©️ Wonderland Wanderess 2026

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