What happens to the version of ourselves that paints or writes a poem when in fury
because more or less our pain is only ours to be fully understood,
our words are snatched from our throats and used against us,
we walk the streets aimlessly
leaving a city after a city after a city
finding ourselves to be nothing but alone,
emotions crawl on our faces,
our thoughts shamed for being expressed too late
bearing a death sentence for wanting freedom from quiet,
stillness so deafening that I wrote this to the creaking of the fan above me as an ant crawled the length of my body
pain, by Madiha Shams Khan
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