To nobody,

To nobody,

People killed something in me called passion. You no longer see anything in my eyes, nor hear a tremor in my voice; only an absolute numbness that has built a wall between me and the world.

But this same destruction made me a writer. When I had nothing left to lose, my suffering became the essence of my words. Every injustice they inflicted on me became a weight on the scales of my poems, and every silence they imposed on me became a depth in my novels.

I rose from my ashes to write; not for hope, not for relief, but only to admit that they did not win. They only silenced a woman, without knowing how much more terrifying her silence could be than her scream.

I no longer write with my heart; I write with my wounds. And this is the only revenge I have taken from this tasteless world.

The one who has nothing in his eyes anymore.

- mika