Don't Forget

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The preachers voice screamed in my brain. Cries of 'amen' and 'hallelujah' rang out in the small church, making me nauseous. My mom reached over and smacked me, a signal to stand and pretend. I stood and I pretended. I smiled politely, never speaking a word because little girls speak with actions, not words. We keep our head down, because we are inferior to men. We keep our skirts low and our sleeves long, our hair up and our faces bare, but most importantly, we never disobey our fathers. We cook and clean and slave for our parents. And heaven forbid we quit believing in God, because if we do, then hell is our new home. No cursing, no music, no art. That's what my family believes.

I guess that's what I used to believe, too, until I saw the rest of the world doesn't live that way. I used to think that way, too, until I heard music with words, and I never wanted anything to do with the outside world until I discovered I am an artist. The music flows to my heart and the art burns into my brain until it's all I can see. That's how I ended up here, in this facility, because I am worthless and disobedient. I shaved my hair and ran away and got caught. 

But it was worth it, because now they all know that I exist.