They call it pichi rathalu, a waste of ink and time. But they don’t see the tremble in my hands when I hold a pen, or the storm I quiet by pouring pain into lines.
Each word I write is a cry I never screamed, a tear I never showed, a wound I stitched with syllables no one dared to read.
To be continued...
They call it madness. They don’t see the pain behind the pen.