You Wanted a Pretty Poem

You Wanted a Pretty Poem

You wanted a pretty poem,

something soft,

something with petals and sighs.

Sorry not today, my pretty is ugly.

I was raised on broken glass.

my lullabies were howls,

my bedtime stories

carved into stone with bleeding hands.

I don’t write for comfort.

I write to exorcise.

Each line is a matchstick,

and I set fire to it. I do! fire

the illusions you wear like perfume.

So here,

take your pretty poem.

But don’t be shocked

if it bites.

Let it draw blood.

Let it whisper truths

you’ve buried under silk.

You wanted roses,

but I grow thorns.

You wanted softness,

but my softness had teeth.

My words aren’t here to soothe you

they’re here to haunt you deeply

To rip open the hush

you mistake for peace.

Because pretty poems don’t survive

in a world that chews on silence.

No they scream,

they scar,

they stay.

They wound hence broken hearts.

Although if you really listen,

Listen past the fire,

past the wreckage I made from quiet,

you’ll hear it loud in your ears.

They say I’m quiet,

but they’ve never heard

the sirens that scream behind my ribs,

or the thunder that sleeps in my spine.

My bones remember wars

I’ve never fought.

The scars bloom in places

no blade has touched.

I smile in photographs

because grief doesn’t develop

on glossy paper.

But it breathes. Oh, it breathes.

Behind every eyelash,

a funeral procession.

Behind every word,

a scream folded into a whisper.

I carry silence like a coffin,

and I am sad no one asks why

My burden but how heavy it is.

They see the skin,

but not the burn marks underneath.

echoes of names I never said aloud,

guilt I dressed in politeness,

and heartbreaks that learned to walk

Yes I walk on tiptoe, silently.

At night, I lie still

not for rest,

Just so the ghosts can find me easier.

And every morning,

I rise like a question

unanswered,

but asked

again and again.

Who am I you dare to ask?

I am just the inner me.