Score |
259
Living in a Slave’s Skin
<p><br/></p><p>Vibrant.</p><p>Colourful.</p><p>Happy and alive.</p><p>That’s what everyone calls me.</p><p>But sometimes—</p><p>sometimes I wonder if they’re talking about me at all,</p><p>or the version of me I learned to perform</p><p>so I wouldn’t be broken further.</p><p>Because inside,</p><p>inside I am quiet in a way that only the imprisoned understand.</p><p>Quiet like someone who learned early</p><p>that crying invites consequences,</p><p>that honesty earns punishment,</p><p>that softness is a liability.</p><p>I have spent my life mastering restraint.</p><p>Swallowing screams before they learn my name.</p><p>Folding despair into neat, invisible corners</p><p>where no one thinks to look.</p><p>I bleed silently.</p><p>Because here, bleeding out loud is rebellion.</p><p>Everything is expected of me.</p><p>My hands.</p><p>My time.</p><p>My body.</p><p>My strength.</p><p>Everything</p><p>except my truth.</p><p>I wake up already owing the world.</p><p>Already tired.</p><p>Already behind.</p><p>My bones ache like they remember freedom</p><p>I have never tasted.</p><p>I give until my body feels foreign to me.</p><p>Until standing hurts.</p><p>Until rest feels like a luxury meant for other people.</p><p>I give and give</p><p>and still I am told it is not enough.</p><p>I am useful.</p><p>That is my greatest value here.</p><p>My exhaustion is ignored.</p><p>My pain is inconvenient.</p><p>My silence is praised.</p><p>I am allowed to serve.</p><p>Allowed to endure.</p><p>Allowed to smile prettily while disappearing inside myself.</p><p>But wanting—</p><p>wanting feels criminal.</p><p>So I bury my desires deep.</p><p>I keep them quiet like contraband.</p><p>I hide them where even I am afraid to touch them</p><p>for fear they will expose me.</p><p>Sometimes I look at the people around me</p><p>and wonder—</p><p>do they still see a human being,</p><p>or just a role I must keep playing correctly?</p><p>Am I still flesh and feeling to them,</p><p>or just another body that must function,</p><p>another soul that must not complain?</p><p>I move through life like I am rented, not owned.</p><p>Like my life belongs to a future that has not yet arrived.</p><p>Like breathing deeply is something I will be allowed to do</p><p>But only later.</p><p>And so the question stalks me,</p><p>day and night,</p><p>soft but relentless:</p><p>When does my life begin?</p><p>Not my chores.</p><p>Not my obedience.</p><p>Not my usefulness.</p><p>My life.</p><p>Where does my own life truly begin?</p>
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