Imagine you didn’t commit a crime, you got arrested, charged and imprisoned for it. But no one believed you. You cried, you told them no I didn’t do it, but no one cared to listen.
Imagine it happened again.
Imagine it happened again.
Imagine it happened again.

Imagine you are 5, you couldn’t get yourself to snitch.

Imagine you are 15, still couldn’t snitch.

Imagine you are 18, still can’t do it.

Then at 22, than at 27 than again at 35.

In the last event you just stood numb, you didn’t even try, you looked up to the sky, instead searching for a sign. You were so confused that you believed that you must have done it.

You spend next few years, going over things in your head, over and over again.

You know you didn’t do it, but you learned at 5, it is not about the truth, it’s about the proof. Proof, either you never had or you were too stupid to explain yourself. People took your inability, a genuine inability to communicate as a confession.

You feel such despair that instead of learning to speak, you teach yourself to be quite.

Your silence than becomes the evidence of your cowardice to others, in your head you fought the urge to clear your name.

You gave up, you stopped crying, you lost your memories and you began to live a few hours at a time.

You want to talk, but you know no one believes you. Each incident took away your ability to have feelings.

You sit on a bench and write this, because you still can’t understand yourself.

All this loud noise and you can’t hear your own. All these people and none is your own.

You live in your head, you set goals to accomplish for others. But nothing in your plans is yours. Because you no longer know what you like, you are now able to exist without a want or a need or an urge to feel.

You are the poster child of the way to hell is paved with good intentions. Only problem is, those intentions were not even your own. Your good and bad is dictated by others.

To look in the mirror and see a memory of who you maybe.

An attempt to belong, an exercise in futility.


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