The Strength She Couldn’t Take by Shantell Bennett

I love my parents, I do—it’s true,
But they taught me everything I shouldn’t do.
I played Barbies alone, tucked away in my room,
While they stared at their phones, lost in the gloom.

They expected me to raise my little brother,
But why couldn’t that be the job of my mother?
As I grew older, the pattern stayed the same—
I was dragged into fights and their endless blame.

My mother made me choose: her or my father.
I chose her, yet I was still a bother.
That’s when the drinking started to flow,
And her actions became the cruelest blow.

To her, I was him—the one who hurt her.
Since she couldn’t touch him, she turned to torture.
The screaming, the threats, the constant blame,
The degrading words, the guilt, the shame.

I’ll never forget the nights on the bathroom floor,
Weeping, locked behind that fragile door,
Hoping for safety in my own home,
While my mind drifted, desperate to roam.

She hated that I stopped letting her control me,
Hated the strength I found to be free.
Even when Grandma opened her door,
My mother’s words cut deep, impossible to ignore.

I worked long hours just to stay away,
Finding solace in the chaos of the day.
Standing up for myself, I became defiant,
But to her, I was nothing but disobedient.

Yet through it all, I’ve learned to see—
Strength blooms in the cracks of misery.
And though I still carry the weight of her pain,
I’ve vowed to break the cycle,
To never let it reign.