Poetic Censorship

The red pen hovers like a hawk, its beak sharp with erasure. Words are stripped of their fever, left pale, bloodless, trembling. A thought, once naked, is swaddled in gauze— so the wound won’t offend. The page shivers in silence. I watch my tongue, tethered in the mouth’s dark stall. A candle tries to speak in flame, but the wax floods its throat. Behind the curtain, the truth grows mildew, while the official story shines like polished bone.