Silence

 

Society doesn't do justice to her,

and I don't do justice to her story.

Because in my story,

I change the color of the stairs, and the scent of the corridors,

So she wouldn't feel the cold of the floor, shooting up her legs.

I stroke my pencil, up and down her picture for so long until she sees a stranger in her own story.

I repeat her voice again and again and again until it becomes mine.



I am one of them.

I try not to be every single day

Not to be the one to judge her with the  eyes that reminded her of the ones

that locked her inside that bubble, a cage of prejudices


My eyes may bleed tears at 25,

Not for the girl in the tainted picture in the living room,

but for me, as I'm dragged along the dirt in a bubble someone else sculpted for me.


Everything seems faded from here. I scream with all the life that puffs my lungs,

But the noise in my throat bends my knees.



I surrender to the stone cold walls, and all my words are broken.

Not  interrupted by the blames.

Not cut down by judgments,

Not shattered by the rage.


They are just broken by your silence.