She Knew

She heard the cries through paper walls,

The shuffled feet, the midnight calls.

The rusted bed, the muffled whimpers,

The bruises born from unseen fingers.

She saw the blood on cotton white,

The way her child flinched at night.

The way her smile was stitched in pain,

But still, she chose to look away.

She knew.

She folded laundry. Cooked the meat.

Prayed at church and took her seat.

She kissed his lips, ignored the stain,

The house reeked sweetly of her shame.

"Don't tell lies," she softly hissed,

"He's your father," then dismissed.

"You're just confused, you dream too much"

As if truth died beneath his touch.

She knew.

But silence is a softer grave

When the monster helps you both behave.

When survival means pretending blind

And guilt is love, redefined.

So the daughter learned to zip her mouth,

To clean the sheets, to bleed without.

To take the name that wasn't hers,

While mother polished silver words.

She knew.

And now the girl has grown in fire,

A woman built from razor wire.

She burns the name, she breaks the chain,

She will not bear the silent shame.

She writes this now, not just for one,

But for every daughter and every son

Who looked into their mother's face

And saw a mirror

filled with disgrace.

She knew.

And still,

she stayed.