I was born into a name
that fit like a locked door
a shape I was told to inhabit,
a room with no windows,
no softness, no way out.
Before I knew what breath was,
before I learned the weight of skin,
I understood this much:
sometimes a life begins
with a quiet mistake
that everyone else calls destiny.
Silence raised me,
teaching me to swallow storms
without making a sound.
I carried my pain like contraband,
hidden under ribs,
as if the world would punish me
for wanting to be real.
I lived as though locked in a room,
scratching at the walls,
screaming inside a body
that refused to hear me,
waiting for someone, anyone,
to notice the girl within,
pounding on the other side.
But no one came.
So the darkness did.
It crept in like a quiet answer
to questions I was too tired to ask,
offering escape from the torment
I carried like a second skin.
It promised a softer silence,
a place where feeling nothing
seemed easier than surviving everything.
But even that shadowed refuge
was too heavy to follow through
a door I couldn’t open,
even when I wanted to disappear.