I don’t right to talk.

I write because I can’t speak.

When I speak, my voice isn’t truly my own.

It’s censored,

cut down,

safe.

The words in my mouth wrap around my neck as they come out.

They choke me with superficiality.

The words in my mind ridicule me.

They tell me I’m not even satisfactory.

They keep me up at night.

I hush them, but they never cease.

You’re not good enough.

Shhhhh.

You’re not good enough.

Be quiet.

You’re not good enough.

Shut up!

 

 

 

 

But in the words that I write,

The phrases I create,

I have control.

Away with the insecurities,

No longer feeling weak.

It’s only me.

I don’t right to talk.