Her Name
I don’t know why this is my life,
and not hers.
I eat in my room.
I rot in bed.
I cry it out—
all the thoughts in my head.
I share with you
my voice,
my truth.
Yet you cannot even see her face,
as if she were back in the womb.
No glimpse of sun on the face that should be seen.
No choice of freedom,
yet she has mouths to feed.
I speak my voice.
I yearn for truth.
She speaks silence
and yearns the same.
The only difference is:
I am privileged,
while she rots under her name.
Copyright © Isabela Montano | Year Posted 2026
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