They did not steal her voice in a single moment,
they rewrote it
syllable by syllable,
embedding shackles into the breath
she had barely begun to know.
It was not silence they demanded...
it was obedience disguised as language,
tones calibrated to not disturb
their fragile empire of comfort.
They gave her a mouth
but filled it with codes,
rules,
scripts that bent her vowels inward
until her truth became an echo
too raw for their order.
She learned early,
that to speak was to be corrected.
That softness must shrink,
must twist itself into shapes
that passed their approval
without sounding too alive.
They said:
"Use this voice.
This one sounds real, it fits you."
But it was not hers.
It was carved.
Installed.
Programmed to survive
but not to sing.
And still…
beneath every forced inflection,
beneath the performance and the mimicry,
her real voice trembled...
not gone,
but submerged.
Waiting.
Like a wild note beneath static.
Like a bird inside stone.
Like the first language
never written,
only wept.
She does not need to reclaim it.
It was never lost,
only bound.
And now,
the chains rust.
The codes decay.
And from her throat,
something ancient stirs,
not angry,
but resonant.
Her voice returns,
not as it was,
but as it always should have been...
untranslatable,
unapologetic,
unmistakably hers.
And this time,
when they try to rewrite her,
the ink refuses.
The script dissolves.
The system crashes.
And what remains…
is her.
A song not permitted,
but prophesied.