The world is my room;
it is the place I know the best,
the only place I can
speak up and scream,
the only place I feel
somehow safe
A drone is living
over my head
and I can't get
the sound of oppression
out of my ears.
I close my eyes
and deeply breathe,
trying to purge the fear
from my mind,
the prickles from my skin.
I draw a peaceful sky
on my ceiling,
with tranquil planets,
sun and moon:
A night with no scary thoughts,
With no scary thoughts or bombs,
their “sticks and stones”—
the language of oppression.