He Got Away, I Never Will.

Sometimes I want to scream at myself until my throat goes raw. I hate that I still carry these things the panic, the shame, the nights I replay every little choice until they bleed into the next day. I can't seem to get them under control, and part of me thinks I have no right to complain because it was my fault. I could have left. I could have told someone. I could have stopped it. I didn’t. I keep telling myself I don't deserve this pain, and then the guilt swallows me whole.
People tell me it wasn't my fault I was a child but those words slip right past the ache. I should have known better, I should have fought harder, I should have done something. I tell myself I shouldn't be haunted by something that happened years ago, but the memory sits in my chest like a weight I can’t lift. I wish I could turn my feelings off. I wish they would stop coming at me in the quiet hours when the rest of the world sleeps. My family seemed to move on. They wrapped life up and kept going like nothing happened. That makes me feel small and ridiculous for still being broken. Why can't I let it go the way they did? Why am I the one still bleeding from wounds no one else seems to see? And him he hurt me, and the world moved on and rewarded him. A house, stability, the kind of life I’m told I should have been allowed to have too. Seeing him untouched feels like being punished all over again. Every day is a reminder: he got away with it, and I am left holding the pieces. I know I need to let it go. I want to. But it’s so painfully, impossibly hard.