The birds still sing,
but no more do I.
For I fear my voice has been stolen,
ripped from my throat,
by hands so familiar,
hands I was so sure I knew...
I recognize the chipped, red nail polish,
the scars and the scabs,
and the doodles in Sharpie.
These are the hands I grew up with.
But now,
I see these hands
covered in my blood,
and they look so, very different.

My voice in their hands,
their expression one of faux pity.
Their face is a mirror image of my own,
but still I haven't an idea who I'm looking at.
Using a voice that belongs to me,
they whisper into my ear
words that I do not want to hear,
but that I believe none the less.

The birds still sing,
but no more do I.
"You are not worthy of your voice,
you are worthy of nothing."
the one with my voice says to me.
And of course I believe them,
because why would I ever lie to me?

The birds still sing,
but no more do I.
I could try,
but I shall not.
For who should listen to me?
Who should ever hear me sing, and say,
"They have a wonderful voice."
Who should hear me sing
and think I have any idea
why I am singing,
or for whom?

The birds still sing,
and perhaps one day
I will sing with them once more.
Perhaps I will pry my voice
from the hands of the one who stole it.

But not today.

© SpiritWritten