The Song in My Throat

They never had to lock the doors—

just built walls around the idea

of who I was allowed to be.

Taught me early

how to fold myself

into something less loud,

less bright,

less free.

Told me:

“Stay in your lane.”

“Dream, but not too big.”

“Speak, but not too much.”

And so I learned

how to make silence sound

like survival.

But inside—

a song stirred.

Soft at first,

like a breath that forgot it was wind.

It rose

each time I swallowed truth

to keep the peace,

each time I shrank to fit

a room built for someone else’s comfort.

The song in my throat

is not polite anymore.

It doesn’t ask for permission.

It doesn’t wait for applause.

It rises

for the girl who was told to be quiet.

For the woman who was labeled too much.

For the voice that shook

but never stopped speaking.

I may live in a world of cages—

glass, gold, invisible—

but I was not born

to live behind bars.

I was born

to sing them down.