There are afternoons that seem normal,
afternoons filled with harmless light,
afternoons that don’t warn you
that something inside you is about to break.
But that afternoon wasn’t.
That afternoon stayed still in the air,
as if the world itself was holding its breath
not knowing how to go on.
I remember the strange silence,
the kind that isn’t peace,
but a warning.
I remember the sound of the wardrobe,
slow, forced,
as if the whole house
wanted to close itself off and not look.
And then the screams.
My mother’s voice,
breaking against the door
again and again,
as if pain alone could open it.
“Please…”
“don’t do it…”
“please…”
And I was there.
Without strength.
Without words.
Without anywhere to hide from fear.
Then everything became too fast.
Sirens cutting through the air,
doors breaking,
footsteps that didn’t ask permission,
only urgency.
And the stretcher.
Always the stretcher.
With its yellow bars,
shining as if they didn’t understand
what they were holding.
I watched it pass.
I really saw it.
And that is what never fades.
Not the noise,
not the voices,
but seeing.
Seeing without being able to change anything.
Seeing without being able to close my eyes.
Seeing myself trapped inside a scene
that never truly ends.
The door of the house open.
Cold air coming in without comfort.
My aunt running,
as if arriving could save time itself.
But time was already broken.
And ever since,
that afternoon returns.
Not as a soft memory,
but as a wound that learns how to repeat itself.
As if my mind still doesn’t understand
that we already survived that moment.
And the saddest part is not the afternoon.
It’s that when I close my eyes,
I am still there.
-
Author:
lorena1 (
Offline) - Published: June 7th, 2026 10:03
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem reads like a very raw retelling of a traumatic memory that keeps replaying in your mind, especially in sleep. What stands out most is how vivid and sensory it is: sound, movement, light, voices. That usually reflects how deeply the brain has stored an experience that felt overwhelming at the time.
- Category: Sad
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments3
Traumatic it is raw and painful to read. It draws the reader on for details that are never given because the outcome is not the point it is the moment all the visceral rush of the minute and what it does to the helpless. Well written
Brought some memories back for me
Some things can never be unseen
Beautifully written
Lore, this really moved me. What stays with me is the distinction between remembering and reliving. The poem makes clear that this is not simply a memory being recalled...it is a moment that continues to exist inside the speaker, returning again and again with the same helplessness, fear, and grief. The final lines land with tremendous force because they reveal how some wounds survive long after the event itself has passed. Powerful work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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