I Should Have Been Held Gently in I Kept the Pieces That Hurt the Most

I remember the wall.

I remember her hands, the rage in her voice, and the impossible confusion of being hurt by the person who was supposed to protect me.

I was a child, dangling between fear and disbelief, trying to understand how my mother could become the danger.

The bruises faded. The memories did not.

They followed me into every quiet room, every raised voice, every moment I wondered if love was supposed to feel unsafe.

I know now that it was abuse.

Not discipline. Not a bad night. Not something I caused.

I was a child.

And I should have been held gently.