by Abudia Ata

They silenced me with a curse,
Carving their expectations deep into my soul,
Like stone;
I have became the crystal
On which they sharpened their knives—
Polished, gleaming—
Yet fragile beneath the weight of their blades.

And now,
They dare ask how I became quiet,
As if my silence was born
Of anything other than their cruelty.

But the irony—
It doesn’t end there.
They call it love,
Concern, they say—
Never realizing that in shaping me,
They’ve only shattered
The person I was meant to be.