The laughs echoed causing silence to flee

and with it my peace as my tears became souvenirs

who were meant to be the ones of my blood 

left me there to suffer in the grave of other women's lost hope.

 

Every tombstone with her name and the man that made her whole life change.

The many ways that made her scream, and the man that made her forget her name.

Maybe if someone believed me.

That no matter how long ago, it still leaves a wound, a scar if you're lucky.

 

Need a place to heal now

but I seem to be too white-washed for the stomping and the clapping

and too black for the pews and sweet chalise wine.

Stares because I'm black or because they can see through my mask?

The fascade that says I've healed myself.

 

Hands trembling to cover my scars

to prevent becoming another man's target.

It seems to be the point of attraction. 

But now I am woman, maybe I can handle it

but my strength is shaking.

 

They claim to really know God.

But laugh at the way my trust of everyone but him drains from me like a thick water.

Birds sing a sweet melody in the midst of the rain.

My name, telling me that I'm okay.

 

My urge to pack what was left of my emotion and lock it away.

But I've dug up the key to tell my story, and paint a nice masterpiece with my pain.

If your wonders are why I haven't cried, 

it's because it's a mixture of anger and shame.

 

Now, when I cry another tear

it'll be because my scars are wounds again.

Reopened, not because of it's happened again, 

but because I'll always remember the day the laughs echoed off the walls of this once hollow space

 

Knowing though my dove had died,

I saw the day my phoenix will still rise.