Cant think of a title

It sounds like my own voice
buried beneath the weight of someone else’s hands.
I swear I can still feel them.
Salt becomes skin.
Darkness becomes memory.
Every wave drags me back
to a version of myself that never made it off that beach.

People say,
“It’s over.”

Then why does my body still flinch
at ghosts?

Why does my heart still race
like I’m trapped beneath that sky,
counting stars because I couldn’t bear
to look at another face?

The worst part isn’t remembering.

It’s carrying memories
that never asked permission to stay.
They crawl beneath my ribs,
fill my lungs with sand,
turn every breath into survival.

I don’t want another scar.
I want silence.
I want one night
where my own skin doesn’t feel like evidence.
But adding another scar
Will make it silent
Just for one night