They started with the easy things–my voice, my spark, my fight,
told me I was “too intense” to ever get it right.
They filed down my laughter to a whisper through the teeth,
and smoothed out every corner till I fit beneath their sheets.
They took the music from my hands,
said silence helps you understand.
They clipped the wild from my stare,
replaced it with a steady glare.
They scraped away the hunger I had learned to call my fire,
told me stillness was the standard,
and anything else was “tired.”
They redrew my edges in their shade of gray,
and told me smiling was how you make the madness stay.
This is what they took to make me quiet–
the riot, the rage, the want to try it.
They cut the strings that used to shake,
and left me with a voice I fake.
They took the words I used to write,
said rhyme and reason both bite.
They inked their pills into my veins,
and sang me numb through growing pains.
They took the scream I never shared,
the part that hurt and still dared.
They fed me calm like bitter wine,
and told me “quiet” would be fine.
And somewhere deep beneath this skin,
the loudest parts still beg to win.
But their echo’s faint, and dressed in white–
and told to sit, and not to bite.
Now I smile when I’m supposed to smile,
hold still through every crooked trial.
But there’s a silence in me sharp as glass,
from all the things they took that used to last.
So when you ask why I don’t speak loud–
remember, they took my thunder proud.
They left a hush they call “complete”–
but baby, I still twitch beneath this sheet.