"Some wounds are quiet. They bleed inward. And still, they scream."
There's an anger I carry that no one taught me how to express. It does not shout. It does not slam doors. It lingers. Subtle brewing. Like smoke in a locked room with no exit. It coils inside me like a child wailing in confusion. You do not know if she needs to sleep, be fed, or held. That is my anger. Displaced, quiet, and suffocating.
I feel it when older men approach me. The sickening sensation that crawls up from the pit of my stomach. The way their kindness comes with hidden motives. The way I sense I am being watched, evaluated, and possessed. And I am supposed to be flattered.
I thought I was safe. I thought kindness meant something pure. But it was coated in lies.
Naivety once blinded me. I told myself older men were mature. I told myself I was making smart choices. Others whispered, maybe you have daddy issues. Did I?
At sixteen, a man twice my age told me he had chronic depression. I did not know what that meant. But he had a car, a job, and a house. He looked like stability. I mistook it for love. That is what social media teaches young girls like me. That to be seen, to be wanted, you must be chosen by someone with power. And so, I followed that image, not knowing I was walking straight into fire.
At eighteen, there was a thirty-five-year-old. At twenty-two, a man in his forties. I was told age was just a number. But I knew, deep down, something was wrong. It didn't feel like love. It felt like I was losing myself, piece by piece.
I was looking for love. For safety. For arms that wouldn't break me. For someone to come home to. But all I got were men with their own battle scars who saw me as a balm for wounds I didn't create. And I offered myself, thinking I could be enough.
But how could they love me when they couldn't even love themselves?
And now I am awake. Wide awake. And filled with rage. This isn't a pretty rage. It's not poetic. It's wild. And heavy. And deep.
It is not attractive being approached by an older man. It is terrifying. And violating. You touched me, and I allowed you. Because I didn't know better. Because I wanted to be loved. Because I was stupid. And kind. And naive.
And so, I smiled at Thabo, my neighbour, afraid. Not because I wanted to. But because in this country, sometimes a no is a death sentence. I smiled because my fear said, survive.
My sense of safety has been ripped away. And no one told me how to get it back. No one held me and said, "I'm sorry."
I breathe too fast now. My heart races when someone new comes into my life. I question their every word. I scan their touch. I wait for the moment it all goes wrong again. That is what anxiety looks like when you've been violated and never given a chance to heal.
They tell us, "Talking helps." But when we speak, they say, "Don't embarrass yourself." So I silence myself. And the shame settles into my bones.
I second-guess my outfits. Hoodies and joggers make me feel safe. Mini skirts feel dangerous. I walk through shops passing dresses I used to love. They say, "You dress so modest." But it was never modesty. It was fear.
I wore a short black dress once, and it wasn't for attention. It was for reclamation. A declaration that I survived. At seventeen, someone I saw as a brother almost took everything from me. And since then, I have never worn a dress without a tremble in my spine.
And still, I hope. I still want to be loved. I still want to believe that someone will see me and stay. That someone will not run from my scars.
But then I meet men my age who say, "I'm not looking for a title." And I feel like I'm walking in circles. Looking for something, anything, that feels like being called home.
And the cycle continues.
I look in the mirror. I see myself. I let you touch me. Hold me. I opened up. I tried again. I told myself it would be different. I told myself maybe this time someone would choose me without breaking me.
I suppressed pain in the name of friendship. And now I feel disgusted with myself.
Here we go again.
You never learn, do you?
So, they tell me, "It's not me, it's you."
"You deserve better."
And I nod, as if I didn't already know.
As if I hadn't already told myself that every night.
Scared. Wounded. I have become the battlefield. And it has not been kind to me.
I feel guilty for trusting. For hoping. For being soft. And no one ever said sorry.
No one ever looked back at the rubble they caused. No one ever saw the wreckage they left behind. They just walked away. And I was stupid. I was kind. I was naive.
You brought this all to yourself.
Breathe