speckcurrialt

Guilt does not scream:it breathes, warm and patient against the back of my neck, counting every moment I survived what others did not. It wears my voice, my face, my name, and asks me gently why I keep pretending innocence is something time can wash clean. Every memory becomes a crime scene I revisit alone, every silence a verdict I never learned to appeal, until even my prayers feel like forged documents left at the altar. I am not haunted by what I did, but by what I allowed to happen while I stood still.