The art of breaking through my hands
They said my body was a canvas, but they forgot— paint can stain, and words leave cracks that no brush can cover. They called me names I never wore, stitched letters into my skin that never belonged to me, and when I stood up, the floor shook under the weight of my voice. They didn’t like that sound— too sharp, too loud, too me. I built a wall out of every whisper I swallowed, every glance that felt like a knife, and I stood guard alone. Because no one stands for the girl who stands for everyone else. The girl who bleeds herself dry patching up the wounds they pretend don’t exist. They said my body was a canvas. I say it’s a war zone, where every scar tells a story they will never have the courage to read. And maybe my heart isn’t gone— maybe it’s just buried under the rubble. Waiting. For me. -Sheeza