Silenced
Silence can be the loudest
It says the most
Like a ghost
It also has a story
This silence
It’s overwhelming
The calm before the storm
Then the question
Why was I born
The silence is now quiet
No answer
But your eyes speak
Those haunting eyes
Daunting
Avoiding
Avoiding me
Why
Silence

At some point, I crossed the threshold.
I went from Kay to a character.
And when I break that character,
Everyone loses their mind.

No one likes Kay anymore.

I don’t know if it was lockdown,
Or postpartum,
Or the weight I gained along with them.
But no one sees me anymore.

If I say something off script,
I’m met with sighs and,
“That’s crazy.”
Then I’m brushed off completely.

If I’m not being witty or helpful,
I shouldn’t speak at all.

I played the part—
Who doesn’t want to be the helpful comedic relief?

But I’m tired.
There’s no understudy.
No one else auditioned.

So that’s my fault, really.
The character was excellent escape
For a long time.

I just never imagined
I’d lose myself completely

When I was little,
I thought I’d grow up
and become someone
that glittered.

Not famous.
Not rich.
Just soft.
Just full of light.
Someone who laughed without flinching
and felt safe in her own skin.
Someone who saved the day
and got to sleep through the night.

I thought growing up
meant choosing your favorite ice cream
at midnight,
meant late-night dances in the kitchen,
meant freedom with a ribbon tied around it.

I didn’t know
it meant silence in hospital beds
and scars you don’t show.

I didn’t know
that being alive would ever feel
so close to being lost.

I didn’t imagine this.

When I was nine,
I made wishes on stars.
I believed in fairy godmothers,
second chances,
and that every sad ending
was just a chapter
before the miracle.

But my miracle must’ve gotten stuck somewhere
between foster care statistics
and the wrong people with the wrong intentions,
between school hallways
and rooms where no one listened
until I screamed.

I didn’t think
growing up meant learning
how to be quiet enough
to stay safe.

Didn’t think it meant
counting calories
and skipped meals
and mistakes you can’t scrub off.

Didn’t think
it would be this hard
to get out of bed
on a Tuesday.

No one told me
that sometimes the monsters win.
And they don’t have fangs
or claws—
just names and job titles
and the ability
to be believed.

The girl I used to be
wouldn’t recognize me now.
She’d ask why I stopped painting,
why I’m always tired,
why I never dance in the kitchen anymore.
She’d ask
what happened to magic.
And I wouldn’t know
how to answer.

Because I don’t want to tell her
that sometimes the world
breaks you
before you have the words
to explain the damage.

That sometimes
you survive things
so dark
you can’t ever go back
to who you were
before.

And I don’t want to see her face
when I say that dreams
don’t come true
just because you want them to.

That no matter how bright your heart is,
there are places so cold
even hope shivers.

But still—
I hope she never stops wishing.
Because I don’t know who I’d be
if I didn’t remember
how she used to believe.

And sometimes,
on quiet nights,
I still look up
at the same stars
and wonder
if maybe
she’s still in there somewhere.

If maybe
there’s still time
to become someone
she’d be proud of.

hereby i announce the signs
the tell-tale of how i met the monsters one random night
and no, i don't remember when exactly
“hello!” they didn’t appreciate me

i saw them in people first
shadowed creatures looking over their shoulders
creeping inside from the back
i watched them take place in their head
and in their eyes—every time i saw myself
what if—what if—what if—

“they know who you are!
they know what you hide!
they will see through you, you need to disguise!
hide! mask! they'll come in the night
despise—despite everything—you need to run and find cover
you can't be bare—not in front of this world
they'll hurt more—seeing the scars you carry
blame it all on you, for the past—when you weren't so merry
they'll see through the false hope and the desires to live
they'll make you hate life more, you need to perish”

then they entered my head
from people, to me—within deep—etched to the core
they haunted all my memories
they stared and made me feel obnoxious

i don't even know—why, when or how
or any of the other questions you could ask around

i have a head full of monsters and i killed them one by one
alas, only if i'd known—they replicated, gave birth to new ones

and so i live
with a demon on my shoulder
a mix of all those who brought me up altogether
and it reminds, and reminds and reminds and screams
it hollows me out, every bit from within

and sometimes i hope i'll find a way to silence it or even a simple meaning
but then i look into the eyes of others, see the mirth—the silent sly creatures—the humans that walk on this earth
and i lend my ear to the demon, let it whisper, let it carry me forward
for who am i, if i can't be scheming

and it wasn't to hurt
but to protect
no one did it for me
i learnt and played myself

never to be just a pawn in their games
the monsters ruled me out, splashed me with blood
as i walked and cut across every other piece on the board
they cheered, screamed and haunted me with all the gore
and i never laughed, only cried
all my tears, my eyes dried

i'd tell you to beware, wish you never see any
for they hold over and ensnare
everyone who's watching, they've had their own
we weren't born with monsters
but now we're the ones that are shown
bright in the light, not simply in the nights
we walk during the day—
i hate my brain.

it sneers, you know?
every time someone tries to get too close
it mocks—my reflection, i see it gripping my nerves
watch it sipping on my blood
and every moment i'm told, “i’m here for you”
the demon sips on my feelings
drains the word, they’re left with no meaning
and every chance i get to feel the warmth—opposite to the usual cold
it leers, peeks over, curses and takes over
it's not me if i push you away, i'd want you to know and understand and for you to stay
please get rid of him for me, for i lose strength day by day
i do not know how longer i can carry
i've got a demon on my shoulder, and it rose from all the ones i walked across
it is cross with the word, an angel at first—it just wouldn't let me be merry.

i knew it — something was here
within me, beside me, around me.
being woken up by fire isn't so surreal.

stepped down on the floor, felt it through my bare feet,
watched the skin glisten, brighten,
turn red and burn with such an intensity.

the heat was unbearable, so were the surroundings,
and yet — yet i found myself going down the lane of memories.

the pathway, a tunnel — almost like a water slide,
bleeding with my tears.
i fell and fell,
found it impossible to reconcile

with everything and the no-longer-supposed-to-matter things of my past.
felt watched, looked around,
remembered the concept of “nazar” in the background —
someone’s always watching, always picking, always hoping
for me to fall, to go down, to enter the lows and never get back up.

i hate the color orange. it just messes me up,
reminds me of all the times i hoped it wouldn’t come true.
i stand amidst the burning flames, watch their color blaze,
see it in my own eyes, stand tall watching myself smile.

am i sleeping? why do i sense no meaning?

the embers rising from the hearth could melt gold — make it blood.
i feel it through my veins and my bones, my muscles and my soles.
the lines are blurry — so is my vision.

i intended to wake myself up, but i can't stop sleeping.
i watch her — and him — and myself — and my dreams.

the final line loops back to the same question:
was i ever awake, or was this fire the irony to hire?
was i up at stake, all this while?
i did truly forget how to smile.

but then i inhabited,
held it close, hugged it.
tiny little sparks emerged from the cacophonies.
i dreamt with meaning, slept with a feeling.
the fire was an old friend —
the memory lane one lost, but remembered quite a lot.

i found a water jug at my side table.
the floor didn’t burn or sear.
they still watched,
but i had the evil eye pressed up close —
sleeping and dreaming of lying with my only 'gold'.
it sparkled, it shimmered, it brightened, and my heart glimmered.

perhaps i was never awake.
it wasn’t no nightmare.
i’m happy where i am.
wouldn’t want to bargain —
not here or anywhere.

I’m just the dreamer, lost in the static of the world—
a perfect schemer trying to carve a shape from shadows,
trying to make something of my own in a place that feels
prewritten. But who really knows what it means to lose a piece
of your ******* soul—

not metaphor, not poetry— but that quiet, splintering
ache when belief begins to bleed.

And that’s the cruelest part: when the dreaming continues,
but the dreaming itself feels so ******* lonely.
When every idea echoes in an empty room, and you realize
the silence is louder than your hope.

Still— you dream. Not because it’s easy. Not because it
makes real sense. But because what else is left when the
world stops listening, and you still believe? A piece of
that dream!

the sorrow isn’t poetic
it’s thick
cold
mud that pulls
without mercy

every breath
feels borrowed
from something deeper
that wants me quiet

I move
but nothing lets go—
chains wrapped in memory
hands I never asked to hold me

somewhere in that silence
a spark
quivers
burning bitter in my veins
small
but mine

I don’t know if this is healing
or fury
but I burn
everything behind me
to make room
for something else

the dark doesn’t disappear
it just flinches

and I
with bleeding hands
still climb.

i've got this dark desire
but i keep it hidden locked away inside
used to drink these demons away
but it started tasting lonely

turn back the clocks, rewind it
there's something else behind this
not that hard to find it
but hard enough to fight it