what the memorial did not say

They'll lay him down in Phoenix ground,

in soil that calls itself free.

A hero’s grave for what they saved—

but they did not bury me.

---

I was twelve when the world became

a door that locked from inside.

I learned to pray the pain away,

to wear my shame with pride.

They took my hands, they took my voice,

they took the girl I would be.

And when I spoke, they called it lies—

and made a villain of me.

---

I am the one who broke the chain,

who said no more and meant it.

I walked through fire to find myself,

and I will not repent it.

I left the faith that blessed the men

who hid behind their prayers.

I left the family that chose the lie

and left me standing there.

---

When Tuesday came at 2:30,

I felt the shift, the break.

Not grief for him—but grief for her,

the one they couldn’t break.

The one whose feet were taped to floor,

whose mouth was held so tight,

while brother watched and parents danced—

and no one saved her that night.

---

They wrote his story, neat and clean,

a good man, so they said.

They left my daughter and her brother out of it—

and I am glad instead.

For now I see. For now I know.

Their silence is a gift.

It shows me who I cannot trust,

who leaves me in the rift.

---

So go. Go place him in that ground.

Go sing God be with you till we meet again.

I will not stand beside that grave—

I’ve earned my rightful place.

I am Cassandra, cursed to speak

and never be believed.

But I survived the curse they cast—

and I have been reprieved.

---

I am not bitter—but I have earned

the right to feel it all.

I spent four decades climbing out

from their collapsing wall.

I am 43. I am free.

I am the truth they hide.

And I will not go back again—

I’ve died enough inside.

---

So tell them I am well. Tell them my daughter is fine with me 

I finally chose my name.

And if my peace is hell to them—

then hell is where they’ll stay.

I am the cycle breaker.

I am the voice they tried to kill.

And I am done pretending

that their comfort is my bill.

---

This poem is for the girl who waited,

for the woman who survived,

for every time I chose to live

when dying felt more right.

I release what no longer serves me—

the shame, the silence, the lies.

I am 43. I am whole.

I am done apologizing for my size.