The walls know my silence better than my voice,

each word I bury makes less of a choice.

They call me the storm, the constant unrest,

but I am the wound they never addressed.

Anger sits heavy, unspoken, unseen,

they paint me in colours of cruel and obscene.

Yet I watch their masks fracture, their judgments unfold,

their whispers turn bitter, their kindness turn cold.

I carry the blame like a chain on my chest,

accused of the chaos, the weight, the unrest.

But beneath every scar that they force me to hide,

is a child who still bleeds though they’ve long since died.

They never will hear the truth in my cries,

they blind themselves with well-practiced lies.

I’m not their villain, not what they believe,

but a mirror of truths they cannot conceive.

So call me the problem, the poison, the flame,

your silence and cruelty sharpen my name.

But I see your colours, each deceitful hue—

and the problem was never, and will never,

be you.