a bench near her

TW: abuse, trauma, childhood sexual violence

i sit here on a bench
a few feet from a trail
i’ve run my whole life.

i know every crack in this path—
cross country practices, races,
laughing with girls in oversized nike shorts,
ponytails to the beat of our seasonal brooks.

i see them pass now—
One shorter, still in braces,
another taller, louder,
talking about the school dance.

but one girl doesn’t run.
she’s frozen,
eyes darting, searching
for someone, anyone, to notice
how scared she is.

i yell for her.
i scream, in my silence,
but she doesn’t hear me.

because i’m sitting on a bench
that hasn’t been installed yet.
a future place
watching a past pain
unfold in real time.

i see her kicking.
i see her crying.
i see the way he carries her
like he’s helping—
as if delivering her to her mother
absolves the hands that roamed
on the way there.

and i sit here.
on this bench.
watching her go.
knowing–if i could reach her,
if she could just hear me–
i would be her refuge.
her safe place.

but no one was there.
just her.
and what happened.
and the shame that lingered.

so now i sit
where she might someday sit too.
and i pray
that this version of her–
this girl on the bench–
can give the one on the trail
the strength
to speak the words
she once believed she couldn’t.

It wasn’t the word “no.”

Because that word was already being
cried with every breath, every kick, every threat—
never respected,
never heard.

No.

It was “You’re a monster.”

The same words etched in promise

in a shoebox

full of all the other evidence of his crimes

with a promise of orange

in his future.

This one’s pretty vulnerable, guys. I’m still learning how to tell this story-not just to others, but to myself.
Thanks for holding space while I do. 💙