I shouldn’t have to measure my breaths

  around the people who raised me.

  Safety shouldn’t require strategy.

  Love shouldn’t feel like

  watching for landmines.

  But here I am—

  careful,

  gentle,

  calculating every word

  as if one wrong syllable

  might crack the floor open.

  It’s funny, isn’t it?

  How loudly silence can threaten

  when you’ve learned to fear

  the way someone exhales.

  How you can memorize

  the exact pattern of someone’s footsteps

  like a warning siren.

  How your body reacts before your mind does—

  heart tightening, throat locking—

  because once upon a time,

  you needed that instinct to survive.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  And they call it love.

  They say you’re sensitive.

  They say you overthink.

  But they never notice

  the way you shrink when they enter a room

  or how your hands start to tremble

  when you know they’re in a mood.

  It happens too often

  to be invisible anymore.

  Too often for it to be “just a bad day.”

  Too often for it to be “your imagination.”

  I shouldn’t have to tiptoe

  around the people who claim

  they would die for me.

  I shouldn’t have to walk on eggshells

  in a home that advertises itself

  as a haven.

  Safety shouldn’t hurt.

  Love shouldn’t frighten.

  Family shouldn’t feel like

  a test you can’t afford to fail.

  But I learned early

  that some people only love you

  when you’re quiet,

  when you’re gentle,

  when you’re easy to handle.

  So I walk the old familiar path—

  slow steps, soft voice,

  invisible bruises no one will ever see—

  and tell myself

  that one day

  I’ll find a place

  where the ground doesn’t break

  every time I do.