Midnight Has Bruises Too

By Neenu Catherine James

I wake.

I breathe.

And the weight hits before my eyes open.

The walls close in like judges in a courtroom,

their whispers sharp enough to draw blood,

their eyes seeing only fragments,

never the storm beneath my skin.

I fold myself into corners,

curl into shapes they can tolerate,

hide the fire inside

so it doesn’t burn their comfort.

Parents 

they choose who deserves their light.

Their favorites shine,

bask in praise, in warmth, in unconditional smiles.

And I?

I am the shadow they ignore,

the quiet one, the “too much” one,

the one whose voice falters

while they crown another.

“Too dark. Too loud. Too restless. Too much.”

Every word a hammer,

every glance a verdict,

each expectation a weight

bending my ribs, crushing my chest,

reminding me that I am never enough.

Teachers

oh, the teachers.

They hand the world to the chosen:

bright-skinned, soft-spoken, flawless, untouchable.

I raise my hand.

It vanishes into cracks in ceilings

that lean closer with every attempt to rise.

My voice twists in my throat,

my ideas dissolve in the air,

and no one catches them.

They watch me struggle,

turn away,

feed others while I starve.

They call it fairness.

I call it invisible.

The church, the community, the ones I trusted

they crush me with whispers,

sideways glances, unkind comparisons,

their judgment like acid on my skin.

A nun silenced the music in me,

smothered my joy,

cut the notes from my throat,

left me hollow,

left me gasping in pews for a grace that never came.

Their cruelty required no reason.

Their approval never extended to me.

Society whispers constantly.

My skin. My dress. My quiet. My stillness.

Every step dissected,

every breath measured,

every choice judged.

Love is a word I do not touch.

Love is a room I cannot enter.

And yet, my chest burns for recognition,

for space, for light, for just one glance

that sees me as I am, whole, unbroken.

I try.

I fold myself smaller.

I hide the bruises beneath smiles,

swallow the fire inside,

pretend the scar is gone.

I smile.

I nod.

I laugh.

I pretend to be fine.

Because if I show them the cracks,

the fury,

the ache of being unseen,

they will notice.

And I cannot survive their eyes

measuring me like a mistake,

like I was never meant to belong.

The scar—the one they said would heal—

still bleeds.

Under my skin,

under my smile,

under every swallowed word.

It hums, whispers, burns.

It reminds me:

I am broken.

I am tired.

I am real.

Every night, midnight comes.

It settles heavy on my chest,

and knows the words I never said,

the voice I never raised,

the stage I was never given,

the opportunities stolen

by favoritism, judgment, and cruelty.

Midnight has bruises too,

and mine are carved across my bones,

etched in silence,

fed by parents who chose others,

teachers who ignored me,

a community that should have held me but crushed me,

a nun who murdered the music in my soul.

I am sixteen.

I am alive.

I have thoughts twisting like dark alleys,

anger that wants to break windows,

scream through streets,

force the world to hear my name.

But they will not listen.

They never have.

My grades crumble under pressure.

Teachers see only what I am not.

Parents’ eyes choose favorites,

and I fade beneath the weight of neglect.

The community whispers in every corner of my life,

every breath I take,

every step I try to make on my own.

I hide my bruises

beneath smiles and quiet steps.

I hide my anger beneath “I’m fine.”

But the truth—the scar that refuses to heal,

the voice that refuses to die—

pulses beneath it all.

I am not in love.

I do not need it.

It has never existed for me.

I do not seek it.

What I crave is recognition.

One chance to speak,

one moment to be seen,

one place where I am not judged

for skin, dress, or quiet strength.

I am not in love

Never needed it.

What I crave: recognition.

One chance. One moment.

One place where I am not judged.

I shrink to fit expectations

never meant for me.

And yet, I burn.

I burn in silence.

I burn in darkness.

I burn where midnight holds me,

and the scar keeps speaking

words no one else hears:

I am broken.

I am unseen.

I am unheard.

I am fire waiting to be noticed.

I am the scar they cannot erase.

I am real.

By Neenu Catherine James