“Are you ready?,” inquired, your psychologist

Revelation demanded your voice, as your gaze whispered of unspeakable burdens.

Sensation lingers, a haunting residue etched upon your form — the imprint of the touch, the weight of the gaze. As one mused, “The body cradles memories,” and in the days hence, a relentless reminder.

Each moment, a lament in your accursed existence, an indelible narrative of abuse. What does it feel like, a captive to your own silence?