The End Of Your Hold.

You claimed me as your own,  
but never truly saw me.  
I was a child in your care,  
yet invisible in your eyes.  
You gave me a name,  
but not love.  
You gave me walls,  
but never safety.  

I grew up in shouting matches,  
in slammed doors and broken bottles.  
I came home to hatred dressed as marriage,  
to voices spitting venom,  
to fists that spoke louder than words.  
You taught me fear before I knew safety,  
shame before I knew my worth.  

You mocked me when I carried life,  
shamed me for feeding the child inside me.  
You called me names while I just tried to medicate,  
while you drowned yourself in wine and rage.  

You stood for my abusers,  
but never for me.  
You raised your hands against me,  
against my children,  
and thought I would stay silent.  
But I roared.  
I fought back.  
I became the shield you never were.  

You laughed at my pain,  
but I did not vanish.  
You tried to shrink me,  
but I grew taller in the fire.  
You tried to silence me,  
but my voice only sharpened.  

I am not your shadow.  
I am not your shame.  
I am not the child you tried to erase.  

I am the mother who fights.  
The protector who shields.  
The woman who rose from wreckage  
and built her own fire.  

So hear me now:  
I owe you nothing.  
Not my tears,  
not my silence,  
not my forgiveness.  

This is my goodbye.  
Goodbye to your chaos,  
your cruelty,  
your control.  
Goodbye to the years you stole,  
to the scars you carved,  
to the child you tried to break.  

I walk away carrying only what heals.  
I walk away with my children,  
with my strength,  
with my truth.  

And you—  
you remain behind,  
entombed in the ruins you created.  

Your hold is broken.  
Your power is gone.  
Your voice is nothing but an echo  
I no longer hear.  

You poured poison into my roots,  
but still I grew.  
Now I stand in my own garden,  
where your shadow cannot fall.