By Reneice Kaur
They call her survivor,
like it’s a badge sewn in gold—
but they never heard the silence scream
from the hollows of her bones.
They never saw the blood that didn’t spill,
the torn lace of innocence,
the way her eyes shattered
while her mouth stayed still.
They didn’t feel her soul rupture
under hands that were not hers.
They didn’t taste the iron
on her bitten tongue,
or the ash in her breath
when the world forgot her name.
They say she lived—
as if existence alone is a victory,
as if crawling from wreckage
makes her whole again.
But she wails in the places
where no one listens,
screams in the mirror
that no one dares face.
She bears the word survivor
like a chain—
not because she lived,
but because she was left
to carry the death
that didn’t come.
So don’t you dare crown her
with your hollow comfort,
don’t you dare paint her strength
without first tasting her silence—
a silence louder
than any justice
ever spoken.