The Mute

She is pushed around and harassed for what she lacks,

Her heart by now should be so shut out,

It's such a miracle it can still furiously beat that loud.

As they claw her skin and chew her out,

But out of her lips , comes no sound.

They call her the freak, the creep and the black sheep.

Her lips stained red in agony and despair, her eyes hollowed out from the long distinct stares.

They'd back away in fright, but then pound their fists with a ridiculous amount of might.

"Are you gonna speak?"

"What is it Freak, Cat got your tongue?"

"Hey slut, are you going to fight back?"

All she did was get up and flick her wrists.

Her mouth sewn shut with endless thoughts of privacy and death.

She stammered and muttered, tracing her hands -her head in the gutter

If they could all disappear she'd have it done with a snap.

If all the kids would just understand,

that best stories are told slowly, silently and never fed from the hand.

But alas without a knife, and with a proper mind she starts;

Hiding away in her shell  ,walks back out the doors after the traitorous bell,

to yet another version of hell.



Guide that inspired this poem: 


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