It Happens To Her

I don’t write myself…

I write her.

She walks through the things I survived,

says the words I couldn’t find.

When it’s too close, I step aside,

let her carry it this time.

I give her my fears, dress them new,

change the names, the shape, the truth.

It’s easier watching from afar,

than admitting how broken parts still are.

If it’s her story, I can breathe.

If it’s on the page, it’s not on me.

So I write what I know like it’s happening to her,

not my hands shaking, not my hurt.

I watch it unfold from a safer view,

close enough to feel it, far enough to move.

I’m drawn to the distance it gives my pain,

this is my safe haven.

If it lives in her world, I can let it go —

at least long enough to stay sane.

She’s stronger than I was allowed to be,

says the things I swallowed quietly.

When she breaks, I don’t have to lie,

I can tell the truth without asking why.

I fix the ending, or let it burn,

give her lessons I’m still trying to learn.

In her voice, I finally say

the things I couldn’t live out loud that day.

I don’t deny it.

I just survive it differently.

So I write what I know like it’s happening to her,

not my scars showing, not my words.

I let her fall so I don’t have to,

I let her heal before I do.

I’m drawn to the space it gives my pain,

this is my safe haven.

If it happens to her on the page,

I don’t have to carry it every day.

Maybe one day I’ll write my name,

maybe I won’t need the space.

But right now, this is how I stay —

close enough to feel, far enough away.

I write what I know like it’s happening to her,

and somehow I feel a little less hurt.

If I can tell her story true,

maybe one day I’ll believe mine too.

It’s not me…

but it’s not not me either.