Dark memories, dripping through the cracks.
Walls built up, starting to crumble. She was waking up.
That look in other’s eyes when they asked her tale, the pity. She was once told she was “a brave soldier.” She hated that. She hated being told that. She wasn’t brave. She was like countless others who had survived—gotten through their personal torment, their internal agony, that battle raging inside of them over forces out of their control.
We did what we could. We survived.
Now we live.
