THE PERVERSIONS OF QUIET GIRLS
I’m an orange,
But if I can’t juice — will you throw me out?
I’m a ballerina, spinning in a music box,
But shall my music break, will you discredit my dance?
Am I a nasty disease just because I chose not to speak?
Is my innocence enough reason to abuse?
I’m falling.
I’m hurt.
They try to make me unlearn
my charm,
my kindness,
too.
I’ll find actions that speak for me —
Yes, they matter.
The thoughts of what I should have spoken scatter.
My words —
My mouth knows me.
My sentences begin to slowly flee.
They didn’t know me.
No one knew about my ritual:
warm toast
and a comforting tea.
Unseen wallowing of my restless tears
yearning for justice.
Shaking palms.
Too young, yet still remembering
the menace in their eyes.
My identity is one that feels.
Oppression stitched in patterns and colours.
Did they know I love teal?
Will they suffocate their eyelids, just to avoid rediscovering my truth?
Oh… how deeply you continue to stoop.
Can they find the cure for my melancholy thoughts?
Cross out the blanks.
Overthinking —
unstoppable endings.
I scream, still quietly:
Can it all stop?!
A skyscraper.
I let go.
God caught me.
I hold my Bible,
allowing Him to help me break free.
On a random day,
I met the Lord.
It was destined.
God knows a quiet girl like me.
I cradle on the floor, unarmed —
and He stands above,
holding seven great swords.
A soothing sunset —
God’s painting.
The thoughts still stand;
they aren’t fainting.
I know.
I know justice is something I will never get.
But I think God is speaking for me —
and who am I to argue with the words of the One and Only?
__________________________________________
Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at poeticiapoems@gmail.com
Featured image credits to HANSUAN FABREGAS on Pixabay
