Can you lend me
— just a small drop —
of my own freedom?
They say women are denied their wings,
but I wonder,
is it always clipped by others
or simply kept folded
by choice?
She says she wants to be free.
And I — I believed her.
So I stepped back.
Gave her space.
Let her breathe.
But somehow,
in giving her everything,
I lost myself.
She wanted my silence.
Until my silence hurt her.
She wanted my words.
Until they didn’t please her.
She asked me to write.
But when I did —
she was the first to tear it apart.
She roams without question,
but counts the beats of my heart
when I’m not in front of her.
I need to explain
every breath
as if living is a crime
I committed
in secret.
She holds the banner of freedom high
but her hands
can’t give what her voice demands.
Isn’t that the poorest kind of poverty?
To ask for what you cannot offer?
And now, I finally understand —
She suffers not because the world hurt her…
But because she chose her reflection
and blamed me for the cracks.
So I ask, not with anger,
but with quiet strength:
Can I have —
just a drop —
of my own freedom?
