Have you ever felt forced to shrink yourself, to fit into others' perceptions of who you should be? What happens when your truth is twisted and your silence is mistaken for peace?
I shrank myself into shadows, tucked small, and Fed myself tales like, You’re lucky, after all. Not “too beautiful,” not “too tall or fair”— As if these were shields to what I had to bear.
I wore my “short, dusky” like some magic shield, Fooling myself with a fake battlefield. Friends and well-wishers, oh, they played their parts, Saw my silence, my cracks—but stitched their hearts.
Now I’m uncapping the jars of what’s bottled inside, But they call me crazy and say I shouldn’t mind. They brand my memories a lie, my pain a disease— How bold to twist the truth when I finally find ease.
Retard, they said, if a tear broke the calm— How dare I disrupt their peace with my qualms? Now I speak for the girl they told me to smother; I’m growing back to my full, unshrinking colour.
But what if you decide to uncap those bottled truths, to break free from the molds they’ve placed you in? Is there strength in reclaiming your color, even when they’ve tried to erase it?
Comments
Post a Comment