The scribble of a pen marking paper.
The hiss of a whisper slicing through the air.
The echo of a shout reverberating off the wall.
I write.
I plead.
I scream.
I am here,
Notice me.
Words unread,
Whispers ignored,
Shouts silenced.
The crunch of nails beneath teeth.
The gasp of pain as blade meets skin.
The warmth of tears falling down, down.
Why write?
Why plead?
Why scream?
Silence.
No pen, no paper,
No whispers, no words,
No shouts, no cries.
My watchful gaze rests over the room,
My stitched lips swollen after all these years.
Will it ever matter?
It is better to never write,
or plead,
or scream.
They always prefer the silence.
