The wallflower screams yet no one
Yet she keeps
in touch with everyone
she cares about.
Her opinion still matters but her voice is invisible,
a little bit like the mute cat she hugs every night. He’s barely there, always there, completely useless as he’s mute.
That’s her opinion. Muted.
She relished in the crowds, in the protests, in the “We want action!” “We want change.”
But she’s wiped. She can’t even get up the stairs without heaving her breath.
She’s a walker. And yet look. Look at her now.
The wallflower is screaming. She is not okay.
But do you believe her when she writes it to you?
Do you believe her when she tells you during that call she begged you to do?
She has a voice but she doesn’t trust it anymore.
Her opinions look shallow, a shell of her past self, who was a flaming raging fire.
Where do I go from here? Why doesn’t he love me? Why can’t they hear me? What is this echo of my solitude doing in the corner, ready to bolt?
I am the wallflower. I have opinions. I have desires.
Why can’t I believe them anymore?