|
| |
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.
Copyright ©
Hira Fatima
|
|