It was only a whisper,
or sometimes not even that.
But the words were there,
living, breathing in my head.

I never let them bloom,
never gave them to the air.
I clutched them close,
knuckles white with fear.

Sometimes they clutched me back
when I was ready to let go.
I was hushed.
Talked over.
Dismissed with a smile.

Even winked at once—
a congressman’s smirk.
“A face made for smiling,
not for speaking truth.”

But the voice remains,
louder than ever,
still inside—
still mine.

Then I found another like me—
hushed, talked over.
My voice spilled out first,
then hers.
Together, we grew louder.

No longer hushed,
no longer sweet.
Our voices rise—
not footnotes,
but the body—
the text, the breath,
the whole damn story.