Shattered Pieces ( tw : : SA , PTSD & depression )

Everything is a touch
that isn't a touch.
Hands that press down,
grip tight,
but not to hold—
to claim.
Feel it?
Like a shadow slipping under your skin,
like chains that don’t rattle
but keep pulling,
pulling until there's nothing left but tension.
Every time the skin brushes against skin,
every hug,
every embrace,
feels like a test.
Is it safe?
Is it real?
Or will it tear you open again?

You hug from behind,
because if you don’t,
you can’t stop the thought:
“What if they hurt you again?”
But when you hug from behind,
something inside you shifts.
The air presses in too tight.
You want it to be right,
but it feels so wrong,
and your heart,
your heart beats too fast.
You can’t breathe,
because you’re caught between
needing and fearing.

You can touch them.
Everyone.
Everyone but him.
The one you love.
The one you daydream about,
but your hands tremble when you think about reaching.
Why?
Why does it feel wrong to touch him?
Because the second incident?
That friend?
He hurt you.
He made love feel like a weapon,
and now it’s stuck in your skin,
in your chest,
in your head.
You want him,
but touching him feels like asking for pain.

And the third incident?
She was supposed to be safe.
You loved being around her,
felt alive,
free—
until the moment you realized
you were never free at all.
You loved her,
but now,
now every touch feels like a betrayal,
and you can’t even let him get close
because you're terrified of what happens
if you do.

Your best friend doesn't know.
They know you need them close,
but they don’t know what makes your skin crawl,
what makes your heart race when their touch lingers too long.
They don’t know about the abandonment,
the hands that were supposed to hold you,
but instead,
used you.
They don’t know about the parts of you
that were taken
before you even knew how to fight back.
They don't know how you cling,
desperately cling,
just to feel safe again.
But that cling?
It’s suffocating.
It’s too much.

And then,
at night,
when you lie in bed,
the darkness doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like a weight.
A thousand pounds pressing in,
and you wonder,
Why do I need this?
Why do I need to be touched like this,
like I’m some fragile thing
that can’t exist without someone holding me together?
It feels dumb.
Pathetic.
Like you’re broken beyond repair.
You wish you could just be whole.
Wish you could stand on your own
without this constant ache inside.

But then your parents ask:
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
And you did.
But all they hear is drama.
They don’t see the scars,
don’t feel the weight,
don’t understand how the world can be
so heavy when you’re already so small.
They spread it around,
laugh about it,
like it’s just something
you need to get over.

So you sit,
silent,
shut out from the world,
waiting for a time when they’ll understand.
Maybe one day,
someone will walk in your shoes,
feel the constant tremor in your hands,
the fear that lingers even in the safest places,
and they’ll know.
Maybe one day,
someone will understand that PTSD isn’t just about moving on—
it’s about living with what’s never gone.
Maybe one day,
someone will wear the weight of it all,
and finally,
they’ll see.