Testimony - The Night

The night knows my real name. Not the one people speak in daylight, not the one that fits neatly in introductions— but the one I whispered to myself when everything else left. I have sat alone with walls that didn’t answer and a ceiling that watched me fall apart without blinking. I have heard my own voice break and still had to be the one to put it back together. They think my past is a knife. They don’t know I was the one who held the blade and the wound. I remember the exact moment I stopped asking, “Why is this happening to me?” and started asking, “Will I survive what I’m becoming?” Because some nights don’t end when the sun rises. Some nights move in. They live inside your chest. They turn your heartbeat into a haunted house. I walked through it anyway. Barefoot. Bleeding. Breathing like it was a decision, not a reflex. I met versions of myself there no one will ever see. The one who begged. The one who broke. The one who almost disappeared. And the one who didn’t. So no— no one can use my past against me. I buried that boy with my own hands and carried his bones until they turned into armor. Now when they sit in rooms and pour my name into their mouths like it’s something to tast— I don’t flinch. cus....