Long Sleeves

I got good at smiling when I wanted to disappear,

good at saying “I’m okay” when I was drowning in fear.

Long sleeves covering what I didn’t want them to see,

memories of abuse that kept following me.

Nobody knew how much I carried every day,

because every time they asked, I’d look up and say,

“I’m fine, don’t worry, I promise I’m okay,”

then I’d walk into my room and fall apart anyway.

Late nights with my thoughts moving faster than time,

drugs in my system just to quiet my mind.

I’d get lost in the memories, replaying every lie,

every reason I learned to stay silent and hide.

I hurt myself when I couldn’t find another way

to make sense of everything I couldn’t say.

It wasn’t attention, it wasn’t a game,

it was pain I didn’t know how to name.

I said I was okay, but I wasn’t okay,

I was hiding my scars underneath every day.

Smiling in the daylight, breaking at night,

telling everybody I was doing alright.

I tried to outrun the memories inside,

but they followed me no matter how hard I tried.

If you asked me the truth, I’d still look away—

because I got too good at saying,

“I’m okay.”

I remember lying because telling the truth felt dangerous,

protecting the people who were hurting me was complicated.

I blamed myself for things that weren’t mine,

carried their actions like they were part of my life.

I learned that silence could feel safer than speaking,

that sometimes surviving just meant barely breathing.

So I kept everything underneath my clothes,

underneath my smile, where nobody would know.

But somewhere between those sleepless nights

and trying to disappear from my own mind,

I realized surviving wasn’t supposed to mean

pretending that nothing ever happened to me.

What they did wasn’t my fault,

and the scars don’t get to decide who I become.

I’m still healing from the person I had to be,

but I’m finally learning how to let somebody see me.

I said I was okay, but now I know I wasn’t,

I was just trying to survive what I’d been given.

The scars are a chapter, they’re not who I am,

and the past doesn’t get to write where I stand.

I don’t have to hide underneath these clothes,

don’t have to carry what nobody knows.

If you ask me now, I might finally say—

“I wasn’t okay…

but I’m still here today.”

For years I thought hiding was how you survived.

Now I’m learning sometimes surviving

means finally telling the truth.