The voices from the pain inserted don’t give permission.
No matter how urgent the cries of nights and mornings spent undercover.
The privacy of circulated grief born out of a need to protect the senses from the truth of a moment that was borne out of tempestuous freedom that invited the unimaginable.
The stolen dream of self — that could have been the key that never goes missing without a trace.
I know why I can’t do it.
It’s because the background noise that shields nothing — enhances the ones that were meant to protect, but flawlessly exposed your core to the hungry manipulation of wolves that wore nothing for the benefit of admittance.
It’s time to sift through the wreckage that holds a survivor.
The right to trace the cause of injury in order to payback the years of rewarding imprisonment is exactly why I will never do it.
She failed me — but I will make her proud.