My inner girl still sits
cross-legged on cold tile,
shoulders pinched in,
stomach knotted—
braced for impact.

Every shadow’s a warning.
Every silence, a loaded gun.
Even a sigh
can mean run—
because quiet
always came with a cost.

She waits—
for the voice to rise,
for the heat behind the words,
for the breaking of glass
or trust
or bone-deep calm
she barely dared to build
from whispered steps
and held-in breath.

And now,
grown,
far from that house,
she still flinches
when someone is gentle—
still waits for the catch,
the crack,
the shift.

Because peace
never stayed.
It was just the pause
before the next lesson
in how love
can turn cruel.

She waits—
small,
hidden under skin and scar,
always ready
to shrink,
to nod,
to apologize
for taking up
too much air.