Unsafe Territory.

My body,

a land mine,

marked with warnings I didn’t put there.

I step carefully, but it shivers, shifts,

still hiding bruises in the soil,

still trembling under the weight of secrets it didn’t ask to carry.

This skin, this shape,

supposed to be mine,

is a stranger I live with but can’t trust.

It holds memories in its marrow,

hides them in places I can’t reach,

and at night, it tells me stories I don’t want to hear.

All that fear, all that shame,

all those hands that weren’t mine.

My body remembers—

remembers every touch that wasn’t soft,

every whisper that felt like iron in my veins.

How do you feel safe in a place that betrayed you?

How do you walk in your own skin

when it feels like it’s wearing someone else’s shadow?

I breathe, but it’s shallow—

lungs bracing for impact,

muscles wound tight, always ready to run,

but there’s nowhere to go,

nowhere outside this frame I was given.

Some days, I stand in the mirror, see all the scars and say, 

“I have survived.” 

Some days, I stand in the mirror, see my body and say, 

“This is mine. I am safe.”

But the words taste like rust.

And my reflection stares back,

eyes that have seen too much, too young,

searching for shelter in the face I wear.

I want to trust this body again,

to live in it without the weight of someone else’s history.

But every step feels like I’m crossing a line,

entering dangerous ground,

and I don’t know if it’s ever going to be safe.