WHISPER UNHEARD; FOR SISTERS IN SHADOW

 

Whispers Unheard: A Lament for Sisters in ShadowIn the dim-lit courts of public gaze,
where truth wears the face of a fragile plea,
women rise from the wreckage of their wounds—
trauma etched in scars unseen, voices trembling
like autumn leaves before the storm. Yet the world, armored in skepticism's steel,
dismisses them with a casual shrug:
"You're hysterical," they sneer, "exaggerating for the stage."
Injustice festers in this disbelief,
a poison that silences the scream,
turns survival stories into fairy tales dismissed,
leaving the broken to mend in isolation's cage. And oh, the petty mockery that follows—
sharp as thorns in a bouquet of false concern.
They dissect her tears with surgical glee:
"Look at her drama, her makeup-smudged facade,"
whispers in coffee shops, scrolls on glowing screens,
reducing queens to caricatures,
their pain a punchline for the insecure. But the deepest cut comes from within the fold—
women wielding the blade against their own.
We reinforce the chains we claim to break:
the catty jabs, the envious eyes,
"She's too emotional, too loud, too much,"
echoing the stereotypes we inherit like heirlooms—
gossipy, jealous, unreliable sirens. In boardrooms and bedrooms, on stages and streets,
we tear at the threads of our shared tapestry,
perpetuating the myth that we are our own worst foes.
Why do we devour the light in each other's eyes,
when unity could shatter the glass ceilings above? Let us rewrite this weary script:
Believe her when she bares her soul,
silence the mockery with empathy's shield,
and rise together, unburdened by the ghosts
of self-inflicted wounds.
For in our solidarity lies the dawn—
where trauma is honored, not mocked,
and women stand as architects of their own truth.