By Monica Singh
My mother said, “Don’t raise your tone,
Unless your blood has clearly shown.”
So I bled in silence, deep and wide,
And let my pain learn how to hide.
I trapped my screams in teacup walls,
Wore cracked china through the falls.
Each breath I took was soft, subdued,
My anger dressed in gratitude.
They praised the grace in how I moved,
But never saw what I’d removed.
My lace was torn, my smile tight stitched,
My soul, a room that’s long been ditched.
The women who came long before,
Were rivers forced to kiss the shore.
But I’m the flood they couldn’t keep
Tonight, I rise.
Tonight, I speak.