Wound and Witness

By Amber Vlangas

I carry it all
the wound and the witness,
the ache of what was done to me,
and the ache of what we do to one another
in the name of justice.

I am a survivor
not only of the moment that broke me,
but of a system that promises protection
yet feeds on punishment -
blind to the fires it keeps on setting.

They tell me I must choose -
grieve or forgive,
punish or release,
remain silent or demand retribution.
But I choose another path
one with no map,
only a compass called wholeness.

Accountability is not the same as punishment
It is the courage to face what’s been broken,
to name the harm,
to ask what healing would take.
It’s not bars or silence
it’s presence -
it’s repair -
it’s seeing the human still breathing beneath the wreckage.

We are all capable
of breaking and being broken,
of making amends
and making wounds.
We are mirrors,
fractured and reflecting,
still able to hold the light.
This is what it means to be human
to hold both destruction
and the chance to begin again.

I will not be erased
Not by those who fear the reach of my compassion,
nor those who silence my pain with their noise.
I hold both truths like stones in my chest
that harm reshapes us,
and that no cage, no collar of control,
no watchtower gaze ever grew something whole.

It is not weakness to want healing
for myself,
for those who harmed,
for a world that forgets how to weep
before it reaches for chains.

There is sorrow here
a deep, keening sorrow
for what could have been prevented
had we tended the roots
instead of cutting down the trees.

But there is also power
in staying soft while the world hardens,
in choosing repair when rage seduces,
in saying
I survived
and I still believe
another world is possible.

Together, we must believe something different is possible.