“Free verse poem about surviving abuse”

In the quiet after thunder,  
I count the fragments:  
cracked teacups,  
mirrors split like old ice—  
I do not sweep them away.  
I hold them,  
letting hesitant light  
finger the edges sharp as memory.

Each morning,  
the house breathes—  
walls no longer trembling,  
floorboards no longer cough  
under hurried footsteps—  
here, I learn the language  
of unbroken silence,  
new and wild.

I find the shape of my name  
in the echo of an empty room,  
taste freedom on the tip of apology,  
knowing I owe none.

Some days,  
the shadows gnaw  
at the corners of sunlight,  
but I—still standing—  
become the window.  
Glass mended,  
catching the dawn.  
Nothing will break  
the morning I have made.

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