I Never Knew

There are moments in healing when the past rises like smoke — not to haunt, but to be seen. For so long, I carried stories stitched in silence, believing pain was proof of love and endurance was safety. But healing has taught me to unlearn. To loosen the old knots of shame, to lift my gaze, to let creation become confession. When I draw, when I write, when I listen to the crows outside my window, I remember that truth has wings.

This poem is for the part of me that once hid, and for every woman learning to speak again — not in whispers, but in flight.

I never knew what I never knew.

Every word uttered, I accepted as true.

I built myself up to make you proud,

and tore myself down when you said I was too loud.

The higher I climbed, the harder I fell—

broken memories I’ll never tell.

⸻

Crow watches.

From the fence line of my memory, she tilts her head,

black eyes gleaming like obsidian truth.

She has seen this pattern before—

the fledgling mistaking the cage for sky.

She croaks a sound like warning, like mourning, like wake up.

⸻

Believing you were my guide,

believing you would stay by my side,

I took each onslaught to heart.

Every word, a lash and cut, slicing me apart.

The perfect doll, I sewed myself together

with needle and thread—

hiding with a razor under my bed.

I tear myself apart when you tell me I’m all wrong,

building up the walls inside to keep myself strong.

Poison infiltrates my mind.

⸻

Crow circles.

Feathers catch the wind like memory—

a dark shimmer of knowing.

She lands beside me, close enough to hear my breath.

“Release,” she whispers, “is not forgetting.

It is remembering without the chain.”

⸻

So I open my palms to the sky.

Ash, feather, thread—let them scatter.

What was once silence becomes song.

What was once fear becomes flight.

And the crow—

my witness, my teacher, my reflection—

rises.

So do I.