Bisma Naveed/A Thought Process
I feel so trapped, this pain it closes in on me, it slits my throat apart. Whatever I say, whatever I do its never enough. I breathe only to know that I have no right to breathe, for I am a puppet controlled by strings, my every action an embodiment of expectation, of what is presumed as socially acceptable and flawlessly right.
I am mocked upon, ruthlessly criticized because I dare to transgress, I dare to bring disgrace to the family even when all I do is comply, all I have ever done is comply. My throat it has turned so corroded, so rash because of this torturous voice that bleeds, this voice that is tired of being smothered, so achingly rejected. There is too much that is missing, too much that was never been owned.
An uncanny hesitation surges through me whenever I speak, for my voice seems so…
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