by: _latterature

You are breaking into pieces for being a mother without a child
Crushed by a heavy load of baggage of life that has not been mild
Years of emotions saved and concealed, pockets turned inside out
They should’ve listened, but their way of comfort is gaslighting and doubts

You should’ve been hiding before the counting reach to ten
Instead you find yourself calming, then seeking for your pen
They didn’t find you, they weren’t even looking for you— what’s new?
Maybe you’re too much or too little— a puzzle that doesn’t fit the view

You grew up strong when you weren’t even supposed to be
You became the emergency contact, your date of birth, ironically
And when you showed weakness, your worth to them became less
But you were just a kid— you were supposed to be their kid, too regardless

I was recently diagnosed with PTSD, with significant features of C-PTSD.
During my first session, my therapist encouraged me to write about the things I want to forgive myself for.
As a frustrated poet, I chose to respond the best way I know how— through rhymes.

I started reflecting on the things I once believed were “normal” growing up— the silence I kept, the weight I carried, the roles I played just to feel like I belonged in a family.
Writing this piece made me realize something painful: I became their helper, their fixer…
but I had no one to help me.
I was pouring from an empty cup, and calling it love.

Therapy helped me see that what I’m going through isn’t entirely my fault.
Seeking help— admitting I need it— is not weakness.
It’s a courageous step toward healing.

There are days when guilt clings tightly, and forgiving myself feels impossible.
But I hold on to the hope that one day, my inner child will understand:
the adult version of me was doing her best to survive too

And when the time comes that I’m ready to fully forgive myself,
I’ll know this truth:
It’s never too late to take the first step in healing.