Forgiveness is a Lie

They say forgive her— she's gone now, let it rest. But how do I forgive the hands that bruised my name into my chest? She died in a hospital, white walls, white sheets, and everyone wept like she was made of light, not rage wrapped in sugar with nails for teeth. “She was hurting too,” they whisper. So was I. But I was a child, and she chose to turn her pain into a weapon with my face in the crosshairs. So don’t talk to me about redemption when all I got were locks and stares. They ask if I’m relieved. No. I’m furious. She escaped. No justice, no truth spilled into air, just more pretending, more polite despair. She died surrounded by pity. I live surrounded by scars. Forgiveness? I tried. But it curdled in my throat, because every time I said “maybe,” I heard her voice, sickly sweet, blaming me for every blow. I carry her in flashbacks, in reflexes I never chose. She’s ashes now. But the damage? That still grows. So don’t demand my mercy like it's some holy rite. She got her silence. I get this fight. And if I never forgive her, let that be mine. She stole enough already— she won’t take my spine.