When Silence Is Forced, It Isn’t Peace

They told her to quiet her thunder– to fold her voice into corners where no one could trip over it. "Girls who speak too much invite war," they warned. So she stitched her lips with threads of fear and politeness, and swallowed storms like rage was a sin girls weren’t sacred enough to carry. They called it grace when she walked like a whisper. They called her peace when she stopped rising questions. But no one noticed how she flinched at her own thoughts, how silence grew teeth inside her chest. She wasn't safe. She was surviving. Every time they praised her calm, they were clapping for the cage they built around her. Because when silence is forced, it isn't peace. It's punishment dressed as pretty– a lullaby layered over a scream.