Not Yours To Use

I watched them gather at the edge of my storm,
hands out, not to help,
but to scoop the rain into their own cracked cups.

They named my bruises useful,
called my silence strength,
and folded my grief into banners
they could wave for applause.

But pain is not a ladder
for careless feet to climb.
My losses are not lanterns
for strangers chasing light.

I learned, at last,
to lock the door of my own story,
to keep the key beneath my tongue,
to speak only where truth is safe.

Let them call it bitterness.
I call it becoming.
Let them call it distance.
I call it peace.

For what happened to me
belongs first to me—
not to their purpose,
not to their hunger,
not to their need to turn my wounds
into proof of something they never survived.

I bent, but I did not break.
I carried the weight
until my knees remembered the ground,
then rose again,
not untouched,
but rooted deeper
than the storm believed I could be.

Still, I am grateful
for the gentle ones who stayed,
who did not reach for my pain
as something to own,
but held out kindness
and reminded me
that not every hand takes –
some hands help you rise.