The Voice

It comes from being unheard.

Growing up as the youngest, I learned that quickly. Conversations would move around me, decisions would be made above me, and opinions would pass through me as if I wasn't fully there yet. Not intentionally, not cruelly, just naturally. The way families work. The way voices get arranged in order of importance. And mine was always last. At first, I tried to speak louder. Then clearer. Then at the "right time." Eventually, I spoke less. Not because I had nothing to say, but because saying it began to feel unnecessary. But the voice does not disappear.

It stays.

It gathers. It waits. This piece comes from that place. Not from anger alone, but from accumulation. From all the words that paused midway, all the thoughts that were never finished, all the moments where expression felt smaller than it actually was. The child here is not just shouting.

He is releasing. Not at someone. Not for attention. But because the voice, when held for too long, does not fade. It builds until it finds a way out. And sometimes, the only honest way it knows how… is to scream.