They say trauma fades with time.
They say time heals.
But time is a liar.
Time is a thief.
Time is a shadow that follows me home,
that waits at the door,
that slips under the sheets and whispers,
“You are never free.”
I believe in God.
I believe in mercy.
I believe in redemption.
But I still count the steps.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
I still check the locks.
Once. Twice. Again.
Because belief does not keep the past from knocking.
Because faith does not stop the memories from prying at the hinges.
I have lived in too many cages.
Some with bars. Some with walls.
Some made of hands that should have been gentle,
but weren’t.
Some made of silence,
of threats,
of doors that locked too fast,
of voices that said,
“Be good. Be quiet. Don’t fight.”
I tell myself I’m free.
I tell myself I’m free.
But freedom don’t come easy
when my body still moves like I’m being watched,
when my breath still catches at sudden noises,
when the past is not a story I tell—
it is a place I still live.
You ever survive something
but still feel like you’re inside it?
Like the past has hands?
Like the past has teeth?
Like the past is still breathing down your neck?
Like it’s waiting in the corner,
waiting,
waiting,
waiting.
I don’t scrub my hands raw.
I don’t wash the memories away.
But I do count the steps.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
I do check the locks.
Once. Twice. Again.
Because the past is a clever thing,
and if I don’t keep track,
if I don’t stay sharp,
if I don’t listen,
maybe it finds a way back in.
They tell me it’s over.
They tell me I made it out.
They tell me the past is behind me.
But the past does not need to be near to touch you.
The past is in my bones.
The past is in my breath.
The past is in the way I sit with my back to the wall,
in the way I check the locks,
in the way I count my steps,
watching,
waiting,
whispering,
“Remember me?”
But I am still here.
I am still here.
And maybe, just maybe,
one day I won’t have to count anymore.
