I’m silenced by my own suspicions.
The idea that I’m the only one,
the only person to have experienced…
The turmoil of a broken home.
The bravery of telling their story.
The bruises revealed underneath make-up.
The risk of unfolding a lie.
The uncertainty behind each word.
The fear of being told, “That’s not the truth.”
to find shadows
There is where my story has always hid.
You ask me to share my story?
“The writing is good.”
There is always
that do not want to be heard,
to be apart of
disassembling the art of the mirage,
which is her.
If after all is said,
You can change the screen,
my story is carried with me
beneath bleeding skin.
Can I share?