The Wound I Did Not Wear

It was a small thing—
a pot overturned,
a meal scattered
across a place
where hunger had once been expected.

Steam rose briefly
from what had taken hours
to become.
Then silence.

There are people
who know how to destroy a thing
without appearing
to have broken anything.
They do not always
leave cracks in the wall.

Sometimes,
they leave them
inside the people
who were watching.
I have seen hands
that should have held
learn how to push away.

Seen tenderness
stand at the doorway
and decide not to enter.
Seen apologies
arrive with empty hands,
stay only long enough
to ask for something,
then disappear
before forgiveness
has finished speaking.

There are houses
where peace is not absent—
it is simply tired
It sits quietly
in corners,
waiting for footsteps
to pass without becoming thunder.

And there are people
who become fluent
in the language of endurance.
They learn when to speak.
When to swallow.
When to leave a sentence
unfinished.
When to call survival
patience.

I watched.
Or perhaps
I thought I was only watching.
But some things
do not remain
where they happen.
Smoke travels.
So does sorrow.
So does fear.

It is strange
how another person’s storm
can rearrange the furniture
inside your mind.
How you can begin
to mistrust open doors
because you once saw
what happened behind one.

How a raised voice
can become a warning bell
in a room where no danger exists.
How kindness
can sometimes feel suspicious
when you have watched
cruelty wear a familiar face.

I began to understand
that wounds do not always
belong to the skin.
Some are inherited
through observation.

Some are passed down
without blood.
Some are formed
simply by standing
close enough
to what should never
have happened.

And perhaps
that is the cruelest part—
not what was done,
but what it teaches
the innocent to expect.

For a while,
I mistook hardness
for wisdom.
Distance
for protection.
Silence
for peace.
And love—

love became a room
I was careful
not to enter.
Because what if every beautiful beginning
eventually learned
the language of breaking?

What if every gentle hand
eventually forgot
how to remain gentle?
What if every home
was simply a quieter version
of the same storm?

So I built little fences
around my heart.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough distance
to keep disappointment
from learning my address.

I became suspicious
of softness.
Careful with hope.
Slow to believe
that something beautiful
could remain beautiful
after being held
for a long time.

But I have begun
to unlearn the things
I learned from watching.
I am learning
that one ruined garden
does not make
the earth barren.

That one bitter river
does not mean
water has forgotten
how to be sweet.
That one dark room
does not mean
the sun has stopped rising.

And that what was handed down
does not have to be
what I hand forward.
Some cycles end
not with thunder,
but with someone
quietly deciding:

It stops here.
Not every silence
must become submission.

Not every endurance
is strength.
Not every return
is reconciliation.

And not every wound
needs to be carried
just because
it was received.

So I gather myself
from the places
I was never supposed
to have been wounded.
I return fear
to the place
where it began.

I leave bitterness
at the door.
And I make room again
for gentleness.
Not because
I have forgotten
what I saw
but because
I refuse to let
what I witnessed
become the architecture
of who I am

I refuse
to mistake the memory
of a storm
for proof
that the sky
is always angry.

The pot was overturned.
The meal was lost.
The moment passed.
But something remained—
not on my skin,
not in my bones,
not where anyone
could point to it
and say,

“There…..That is where
it hurt.”

It remained somewhere
more difficult to name.
A quiet bruise
beneath the surface.
A question
A wound
I did not wear,
but somehow carried.

And perhaps healing
is not pretending
I was never affected.
Perhaps healing
is simply deciding
that what affected me
will not define me.

So I put it down
Not all at once.
Not perfectly.
But deliberately.

And somewhere
between what happened
and what I choose
to become,
I discover—
the wound may have been
mine to carry for a while,
but it was never
mine to keep.

So yes—
it was food!!!
But it was never
just food
And in the moment
he poured it away,

I understood something
I wish I had never had to learn:
Cruel people rarely notice
what they destroy.
They only notice
when you stop giving them
access to destroy it.

So I refuse
to let what he poured away
take away
what he cannot afford to touch—
my capacity to believe
that love can still be good.

And no one else gets to write the end of my story.

What Was Poured Away

It was only food,
someone might say.
But it was never
only food.
It was time.
It was money.
It was standing in a kitchen
when I could have been resting.

It was measuring.
Stirring.
Waiting.
Preparing enough
to carry me through the day.

It was an ordinary act
of taking care of myself.

And then—
it was poured away.
Not accidentally.
Not because something had gone wrong.
It was done
and I felt the message
behind the action.

You may have thought
you were pouring away food.
I felt you pouring away
my effort.
My resources.
My dignity.

For a moment
anger rose so quickly
I could hardly separate
the heat in my chest
from the words
forming in my mouth.

I wanted to answer.
I wanted you to feel
the weight of what you had done.
But family has a strange way
of making anger complicated.
Because tomorrow still comes.
People still sit
at the same table.

Names remain connected
even when feelings
have become difficult.
So I stood there
with my hurt
and asked myself:

What will answering anger
with anger actually repair?
Nothing.

It would only give
one painful moment
another painful moment
to live inside.
That does not mean
what happened was acceptable.

Peace is not pretending
that disrespect did not happen.
Forgiveness, when it comes,
does not require
forgetting the boundary.

So I learned something
about quiet strength.
I can be calm
and still be clear.
I can refuse
to participate in provocation.
I can protect my space
without destroying yours.

I can say,
Do not do that to me again.
without becoming
the person I am trying
to protect myself from.

Perhaps that is the hardest part
of family conflict—
knowing when to speak,
knowing when to leave,
and knowing when your silence
is wisdom
rather than surrender.

The food was gone
in minutes.
My effort could not be recovered.
But I refused
to let one person’s action
decide what kind of person
I would become.

Some things are poured away
and cannot be gathered back.
My peace
will not be one of them.

About the poet/writer:

Lilian Onyinye Okoloye is an interdisciplinary writer and professional whose life’s canvas spans healthcare, technology, and digital landscapes. Holding academic foundations in both Computer Science Education (BSc) and Digital Marketing Communication (MSc), she blends the precision of a technologist with the strategic instincts of a visionary storyteller. Grounded by her deeply empathetic work as a Healthcare Assistant, Lilian’s writing serves as a mirror and a bridge—distilling complex emotions, loss, and resilience into shared human meaning.