When I was little, my grandfather came home with a surprise he found at one of his job sites—a wind-up jewelry box.

When I opened it, a tiny ballerina spun round and round as the music played.

The outside of the box was a little banged up, and I could see faded marks where stickers had once been.

The music almost made it through the whole song, but then—suddenly—it would stop, like something inside got stuck.

The tune sounded warped, paused, and just when I wanted to shake it, the music started again.

Silent scars feel just like that jewelry box.

The box is my body, and the music is my voice.

Just like the song got stuck, there’s a disconnect in me—my lips move, but no words come out.

It’s like I take a deep breath, build the nerve to speak, and my mind knows exactly what I want to say.

But then—something stops me.

A block rises in my throat, trapping the words before they can escape.

My stomach tightens, like I’ve been sucker-punched, and suddenly I feel like everyone around me is watching… maybe even laughing.

When words get stuck inside, I sink into learned behavior—layers of lingering pain, shame, and self-hate burn through me, searing my voice before it can break free.

———

Sonia

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