A Feather for Some, An Anvil for Others

They said, It’s not your fault. The words fell light, a feather on the air, meant to soothe, to settle, to smother the wound without ever looking inside it.

A feather for some, an anvil for others—and I carried the weight alone.

Belief was whispered, a hush in the room, nods exchanged like quiet currency. We believe you. We are here for you. But belief was never the thing that mattered.

A feather for them, an anvil for me—pressed to my chest until breath became burden.

They documented, they filed, they spoke in low tunesmithery folded my pain into neat little phrases. Appropriate response. Keeping things stable. They built walls around the truth, and asked me to live inside them.

A feather for them, an anvil for me—the weight of a crime turned into silence.

And him? Oh, him. He was talked to, he was reasoned with, he was given the grace of soft voices, the kindness of men who refuse to see monsters in the faces of their own kind.

A feather for him, a breath of mercy—an anvil for me, another stone in my ribs.

I passed him in hallways, felt my body shrink, sat at his table, learned how to Chew without tasting. He cut his meat into careful bites, and I swallowed around the lump in my throat.

Years stretched long. The weight did not lift. They smiled, they sighed, they said, We did what we could. Their hands were clean, their voices light. Their belief had been given, and that was enough.

A feather for them, an anvil for me.