Oh, what freedom it is
to be a girl raised
by a middle-class family
no room to breathe,
no space to feel
The morning sun rises fine,
Yet each dawn drains me
life seeping out,
drop by drop.
They say let go, don't hold on
But never teach me how.
If my tears could speak,
They would write volumes.
If my phone could betray me,
It would shatter,
under the weight of secrets.
The air outside whispers healing,
but I remain within four walls,
entangled in memories,
a prisoner of the past.
Oh, what pleasure it is
to be a girl raised
by a middle-class family.
Oh, what silence it is
to watch them weave
the golden cage around me.
