When I was ten,
I had the tendency to raise my voice
A little too high;
I was afraid that if I didn’t,
Nobody would be bothered to listen to what I had to say.
But I was always silenced with a simple:
“Mind your indoor voice,”
Because my indoor voice was more easily ignored.

When I was thirteen,
I knew of a girl whose wrists were so eloquently lined with poetry
Because she didn’t dare make a sound,
But you see,
There was nothing beautiful about the verses
Written with the ink pouring from her veins.

When I was sixteen,
I came across a boy left sobbing
Because his sister dreamed of being as light as
The oxygen that no longer fills her lungs.
Tell me you could hear what you told her not to say.

When I was seventeen
My best friend fell in love
For the last time.
He could feel his heart climbing out of his chest,
And in foreign scroll it bore the name of a man;
For this he wanted to die.
Since when did falling in love become a ***** word?
I know you said to use my indoor voice but
Can you hear me now?

When I was eighteen
I learned that etiquette won’t banish the empty
Promises of a society
That doesn’t want to hear what I have to say;
A society that doesn’t want to hear the stories of the souls
They banished from their memories
Hiding behind the claims that there was nothing that could have been done
To save them.

No.
I will no longer use my “indoor voice.”
I will not quiet myself because you are afraid of the words I have spoken.
Even after my voice is confined to a hoarse whisper,
I will make you listen to the consequences of what you’ve chosen to ignore.
See, you’ve taken our bodies and turned them into time bombs,
And we shouldn’t be the only ones forced to listen as they scream:
Three. He told you that he couldn’t breathe,
And you said it was because he never even tried.
Two. It’s getting harder to breathe.
Can you hear me?
One. I promise,
I tried.