Scratch the line that burns me
like the arsonist who tried to silence my voice
with smoke.
I swallowed the smolder,
but the syllables turned to ash against my broken
teeth.
The world pleaded for silence, but I raised my voice.
The world asked for quiet,
and in exchange,
I gave it my voice sharpened to a blade.
Don’t ask for cotton when all you gave me were
scars.
Beware the silence you begged for –
it’s simply the calm before the storm.

Isabelle Palerma