🕯 The House That Forgot to Love

Some wounds don’t scream anymore — they whisper.

They hum beneath the surface when the world gets too quiet,

reminding me that even silence can sound like fear.

I grew up learning that love had rules.

Don’t ask. Don’t cry. Don’t need.

The air in that house was thick with smoke and secrets.

Each day felt like walking on glass barefoot —

trying to stay small enough not to be seen,

yet desperate for someone to finally notice.

There are memories I don’t talk about —

not because I’ve forgotten them,

but because they still sit heavy behind my ribs,

waiting for permission to breathe.

The kind that come back in flashes —

a slammed door, a raised voice,

the sound of my own heart trying to hide inside itself.

But I’ve learned something in the years since:

survival and love are not the same thing.

You can grow up in chaos and still crave calm.

You can be born into pain and still choose tenderness.

So this is for her — the little girl who carried herself

through nights that felt longer than life.

The one who became her own parent before she could spell the word.

You were never broken, only buried.

And I am here now,

unearthing you gently,

so you can finally rest in the kind of love you always deserved.