The girl in the room began to cry.

The words they said—she wondered why.

Did they mean to be so cruel?

She sat alone in a crowded school.

Was this the lesson they meant to teach?

An exercise in freedom of speech?

The voices rose above the din.

She asked—is it the colour of my skin?

Don’t make a fuss, don’t fall apart.

They’re just being funny. Don’t take it to heart.

These are just words, the teachers would say,

They know no better. They’ll go away.

But the words returned—today, tomorrow.

Sharp and careless, soaked in sorrow.

Why won’t they stop? Why won’t they leave?

Why can’t she breathe? Why no reprieve?

Just words, they said. Stop being a fool.

Quit making a fuss. Get on with school.

Words can’t hurt. They’re only fun.

Now quick—off you go. Back to class. Run.

So run she did to her secret place,

Where words grew distant, soft, erased.

High above, on a branch in a tree,

She found the quiet where she could be free.

A freedom she wished would stretch forever.

But in that tree, she asked whether

She could return and hear it all again—

The words that wounded more than pain.

No ground beneath her feet to feel.

Only silence now—so sharp, so real.

The words can’t follow where she lay,

Can’t make her cry for one more day.

The girl in the tree,

Finally free.

(Art by Rob Ahmad)