How the Body Remembers

‎‎‎The scar on your knee from when you fell chasing a name.‎

The ache in your hands when it rains—‎your grandmother swore this was how ghosts touched bone.‎

The way your mother’s silence still sits in your chest, ‎a house no one lives in but you refuse to leave.

‎‎The body is a story told in echoes.‎

A bruise fading into memory.‎

A ribcage tightening when you pass the street‎ where love once held you and then let go.‎‎

You try to unlearn, to smooth over, to forget.‎

But the body keeps.

‎It remembers the weight of absence,‎the language of loss written in muscle and marrow.‎‎

Somewhere beneath the skin,‎ there is still a boy who never stopped running,‎ still a girl tracing old wounds in the mirror,‎ still a name waiting to be spoken—‎not for the first time, but for the last.‎‎‎

‎Tafahri Theru Munjatta