Somewhere in America,
History is clearing its throat,
And nobody wants to hear the cough.
Somewhere in America,
A little girl is folding herself
Into the smallest version of survival.
Learning that silence can weigh less than a scream.
She is hiding.
Not because children play hide and seek.
But because grown people play God.
Because hate sharpened its teeth,
Put on a flag,
And called itself patriotic.
She writes.
Not because she dreams of being famous.
But because it’s cheaper than a gravestone.
Because every sentence whispers:
“If I disappear, don’t let my words disappear too.”
And somewhere, right here,
We walk past brick walls;
Past headlines;
Past each other;
Thinking that monsters wear uniforms from history books.
But monsters evolve.
They trade boots for boardrooms.
Slurs for slogans.
Chains for algorithms.
And suddenly prejudice sounds… Polite.
Tell me… How many attics are we building today?
How many children are shrinking themselves
To fit inside cupboards… borders… classrooms…
Their own skins?
How many diaries are being written
Because speaking aloud
Still feels too dangerous?
This isn’t just about one girl.
It’s about every heartbeat
That’s forced to apologise for existing.
It’s about every page
That had to become a witness
Because people refused to be one.
So don’t tell me “That was back then”.
History doesn’t repeat because it forgets…
It repeats because we do.
And somewhere in America,
There’s still a child
Waiting for grown-ups
To prove they are adults.
So read the diary.
Please.
Read the silence.
Read the spaces between the words,
Where fear learned to breathe.
Then close the book.
Not to end the story,
But to make damned sure
That we never hand another child a pen
When all they needed was a world
That didn’t ask them to hide.
(C)BobChristian
