Words Hurt Me

A Poem About the Slow Work of Expelling What Was Never Mine

Hateful words,
slivers,
embedded in my nerves
accumulating over years.

At first ignored,
swept under the rug.

But, now?
Quills protrude
out my skin.

Disassociate.
Disappear.

Slivers
stuck
in my throat.

Love whittled down
by every hate filled word…
Safety evaporates.

Tears stream down
my face.
My body trembles
and aches.
Hating myself.

Am I these words?
They’re stuck inside,
echoing in my brain,
slowing my movement,
slurring my words.

Now that you’re gone…

No new slivers appear.

Sluggishly,
they push out
my flesh.

One by one
clicking on the floor.

As I rediscover…
who I am
and what I’m not.

Healing here isn’t sudden. It’s tactile, almost audible, each sliver loosening its grip, each small release reclaiming space in the body and mind. There’s a quiet defiance in the image of those fragments falling away, a recognition that identity can be rebuilt not by force, but by patient separation from harm. And in that fragile rediscovery, a question begins to form.

When the echoes finally fade, who gets to speak for you?