I grew up where thunder learned my name,
where doors were slammed like weather,
and silence did not mean peace—
only the moment before another storm gathered.
The walls kept every shout
the way old trees keep lightning scars,
and I became fluent in footsteps,
in the sharp breath before a voice became a blade.
Anger lived at the table,
drank from the good cups,
wore familiar faces,
and called itself love when no one was listening.
There were rooms inside me
no child should have had to build:
small locked places for trembling,
dark drawers for questions,
a bed made of waiting for things to change.
Now rage still visits sometimes,
knocking hard with old hands,
asking to be let in, asking to be believed.
But I am learning the difference
between inheritance and home.
I am learning my body is not a battlefield,
that my voice can open without breaking,
that tenderness is not weakness,
and peace is not the absence of memory—
but the courage to stop passing pain forward.
Some nights, the past still burns
with its terrible orange light.
Still, I gather what was left of me,
breath by breath,
and teach it to grow green again.
Anonymous Survivor
