Talking to the Ghosts

I was not meant to witness,
but I did.

And the child inside
froze
between knowing and not-knowing,
held hostage by a moment
that would echo
for years.

I left that room
with a silence
too large to carry in my chest.

The air that followed me
was thick with questions
I had no tools to carve open.

What is this feeling?
Why does the body answer
what the soul can’t explain?

The old voices came,
draped in robes of guilt,
sacred laws and trembling vows.
They whispered of sin
in the language of confusion.

But the one I saw
meant no harm.
She simply existed
when I wasn’t supposed to see.

And I,
I didn’t understand.
Still don’t,
not completely.

What I do know:
I was given everything.
Days, warmth,
a life crafted from hunger and care.

There is no finger to point,
no crime to accuse.

Only a moment
that arrived uninvited
and stayed too long.

I’ve spoken harshly,
even when I meant only to understand.
I’ve seen retreat
in the eyes of those who carried me.

So I speak this now
to the ghosts:

I don’t want to fight.
I don’t want to forget.
I only want to sit
with all that never made sense,
and let it breathe
without shame.