“Victim, or Just Wounded?”

I ask myself in silence,

When no one’s watching,

No one listening—

Am I the victim?

Or am I just playing one?

They say pain is universal,

That everyone has a story,

So what makes mine worth telling?

Why does mine ache so loudly,

When the world keeps spinning?

I carry wounds like luggage,

Heavy, even when hidden,

And I wonder if I’m weak

For not learning how to let go—

For bleeding where no one can see.

He said I was whining,

Called me useless,

As if grief were a choice,

As if the years I spent surviving

Were an act on a worn-out stage.

But if I was playing a part,

Wouldn’t I have written a happier ending?

One where I loved myself sooner,

One where I didn’t shrink

Just to make room for someone else's cruelty?

No—

I am not a character in someone else's judgment.

I am the aftermath of too many storms,

Learning to walk again with trembling feet.

Not pretending, not performing—just healing.

So maybe I am a victim,

But not of weakness—

Of circumstance.

Of love gone wrong.

Of being too strong, too long.

And even if the world can’t see it,

Even if some voices say I’m too much—

I’ll keep whispering the truth to myself:

That wounds don’t make me dramatic.

They make me real.

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