InspireHer StudiosHER Voice Vol. 1
Table Of ContentsPgs 3-4 ~ “Borrowed Skin” Pgs 5-6 ~ “The Mirror That Loved Me Back” Pgs 7-8 ~ “I’m Fine” Pgs 9-10 ~ “Becoming Her” Pgs 11-12 “The Sound Of Becoming”
My skin used to be so pure, So soft, even a single touch felt fresh like a morning, red rose. The rose bloomed without hesitation, Reaching for the light. But the light was covered by more dirt, Burying the poor flower, Curling petals brittle, Rotting into the thought of being myself. Strangers picked and prodded around tender edges, Made my blood dimmed to cold. When the lights went out, My body laid still, shivering, Wishing so frantically for a candlelight besides me, To keep away from the frosted hatred ahead of me. My skin longed to be crisp, Untouchable towards stares and whispers. All my skin ever wanted is… To be rough as a mountain standing so gracefully in a raging storm. So it hardened, learning to deflect It learned how to deflect echoes, How to draw crowds, How to make peace with strangers, For a while, it worked Then the voices returned… “She’s acting… differently.” “She wants to fit in, doesn’t she?” “Why does she erase herself to join the flock?” Shia Balli Borrowed Skin
The questions I was faced I was afraid to even name. The horrors came across the skin, late one night… I stared at the silver glass, That reflects my true identity. A skin splitting at the seams, Falling apart like melted snow I turned aside, trembling. The tears still remained opaque to me Like a running waterfall full of sorrow. As I cried out, “When my skin is velvet, they all become harsh…” “When my skin is firm, they all become grim…” So whose skin should I be able to borrow if not someone else’s!? No answer came, Just stunned silence… But something inside me tells me, I should’ve known it all along… Even if I despised it.
Every single second of every waking hour, You always stare at me with your smoothed, silent face, Quietly absorbing every obsession and insecurity, That bottles up within my chest, And I would never open it to the entire world. All of my fingertips, pressed ever so slightly, Scrolling endlessly on the sleek face of yours, Seeing the same, charming posts that carved marks on my jealously, My insecurities… Of the person whom I yearned to be. A girl with a body fully stitched together by breath and ease. A girl with words filled with adoration that reached into the minds of everybody. A girl… whose beauty wouldn't be questioned by others. I believed in all of those lies, as gullible as I am, To think that I would ever be such a gorgeous girl standing in this grotesque world. That girl, as graceful as a swan gliding across a lake, Basked in the sunlight, turning to ripples of gold, Until the blue water gradually deepened with buried secrets, Sinking her perfect image below, And drowning in her own selfishness. Then, the whispers started… “The girl, so beautiful of heart, hides a black venom inside.” “The girl, who felt light and calm, carried an unsettling gravity.” “The girl, whom nobody interrogated… held hidden truths inside that she dared not speak.” I tried to hear the hushed voices that bellowed, But you wrapped your arms of quiet intent, Around my curious ears.Shia BalliThe Mirror Loved Me Back L i a r F a k eP l a s t i cF r a u d
From the first breath I drew, You tried to suffocate me, In my own fragile thoughts and quiet anxieties, A twisted reality of lies I would cherish forever. I learned better, through every moment I’ve known, The mirror that smiles back at me, Grins with all my desires and fears, Also can cut through the fleetings of hearts, Leaving a scar, still but wounded.
The night sky cries with silver tears over the sleeping city, As my head rests upon the window pane Resting on a soft mattress like a pile of freshly fallen snow, A heavy sigh to conclude a bruised day. A buzzing erupted from beyond the phone As I picked it up eagerly, I knew it had been a while Since I heard that sound. I tapped the glowing screen, a light appeared with a message, Written by a friend who I knew, “You seemed off today, is everything alright?” Without a lingering thought, I stared aimlessly at the message, Organizing my thoughts and scattering my words But they wouldn’t come up right. Thoughts came creeping up inside of my brain Like a spider weaving its web in the silence, In my silence… My silence where no one hears me, My silence where no one feels me, My silence where no one sees me… I’m just an empty shell with empty words, If I spilled my problems out like a storm pouring out rain, They’ll all just get wet in shame. Shia Balli I’m Fine
A way to approach this without getting hurt, A way to end the day without my heart being punctured, I replied; “I’m fine.” My thumb hovered over the paper airplane, And the thoughts replayed in my mind Like a whisper that keeps coming back. Those whispered words keep engraving in my skull again, And again and again, “I’m fine.” “I’m okay.” “I’m alright.” Those simple words collapse my frame, Turns me insane, An excuse to run away to nowhere but here, In the little box I created inside my head scape. I keep suffocating in that tiny box, It’s so cramped and cold, No matter how much I try to scream, How much I hit the sides, The pressure of the sides squeezing into my elbows, No one would care… right? But I can’t hide in there forever if the walls are closing in. I now know, silence isn’t my only superhero, It was my enemy that only teaches the pain to stay. So I erased the message in a flash, And vented out all of my problems, Airing the tension away from my mind Into the electronic message. Every breath I take, every breath I exhale, Is a sigh of relief, like it’s all over… I am whole when the dusted pieces shine bright.
Shia Balli Becoming HerThe sun stretched across the sky like warm honey It’s melted light sticks on my rustic locker. The same textbooks filled the darkness, A cage holding another tiresome day. I released the ones from the shadows Into the light of my chest, Slamming the locker shut with its familiar creak That tightened the pressure inside of my temples. Walking through the congested hallways again, The same students conversing, Same teachers yelling, Same couples halting… But there’s certain types of a people I’ve saw consuming the crowds, Like a gray storm. Thunder rumbles upon the soles of their sneakers, The whispered boom of their rosy cardigans, The cracks of their silver chains draped around like their own armor, So tough… I couldn’t even stand a chance. My only attack– was to widen my brown eyes which tremble in shock. In class, I studied the anatomy of one of the girls Sitting down gracefully, her dark brown hair rested in a sleek low bun– Holding the weight of calm confidence of her own worth… From behind the wooden desk, I believed sheepishly; “I want to become just like her.” There was a pristine mall close to my school, A 15 minute drive to my safe haven. Brisking through stores to search for a new identity– A polished wardrobe, a perfect face, And a personality built from someone else’s dream. I even made my falling hair stand upon my head, Seeing my exhaustion that craves foundation, And my body yearns for its insecurities to be protected as armor.
Shadows stretched across the house As I stepped inside my front door. My mother stared at me, as if I was a forgotten memory. And whispered; “What have you done to my daughter?” The beam of sunlight gave me another chance, As I glided through the hallways, With a splash of Dior clung the air around me. I heard their hushed voices trail throughout the halls… “Who IS she?” “She looks so pretty…” “So shiny like a pearl hidden beneath the ocean forever…” The popular girls lend out their hand, Desperate for attention, I mistook it for salvation. Their salvation… became my cage, And my screams grew louder behind its beauty. I now know in the end— I finally heard my own voice amongst the cries, Though they called it; “too loud,” Like a flower bowing beneath the heavy rain. But the flower wasn’t struggling, It bended with such poise… It didn’t care of becoming another bloom, Only to blossom as itself.
Lunch—the loudest part of the day. The blaring sound of the bell echoed throughout the halls, releasing the swarm of thousands of students into the large cafeteria. Conversations collided throughout the heavy scent of warm food and plastic trays. While students laughed about inside jokes and whispered juicy gossip, Oaklyn Ripley sat quietly on a worn-out bench, writing their actions in her vintage leather journal. Every note Oaklyn wrote eventually ended up inside her grandmother’s weathered wooden music box, where she stored the words she feared to speak aloud. She hid her box beneath her charcoal-colored bed, close enough to reach but far enough to pretend it was invisible. Oaklyn collected these notes because she feared saying the wrong thing. She doesn’t want to go through that experience again, even during her elementary school days. She was always talkative, asking questions and eager to tell stories. After endless years of being misunderstood, she had the urge to bury her voice beneath her throat. Oaklyn’s classmates came up with the nickname; “Silent Oak,” a name she wore around her shoulders like a shadow. For the first time in forever, she had to care when an echo of footsteps approached her dark academia bedroom. Oaklyn forgot that she was sitting on her knees, resting on the warm hardwood flooring that stretched in front of the mahogany door. She was about to stand up when her mother entered the door willingly, smiling thinly on her olive skin. “Hey-a Oak Tree! What-cha doing there?” Ms. Ripley calls her daughter “Oak Tree,” reminding her that strength could exist beneath the silence. She wandered to where her daughter was sitting as she put her hands on her hips, her thin smile transitioned into a smirk. “What’s under the bed?” Oaklyn obviously couldn’t answer, she just stared at her mother with her hazel eyes that she shook away. Her mother reached underneath the bed and took out the wooden box. Inside, the tiny ballerina spun stiffly beneath the torn pieces of pages smashed. Ms. Ripley was devastated, her mouth swinging open slightly. “Oaklyn… how could you do this? This was my mother’s old music box she gave to you!” Oaklyn had no reply, her stillness was the only answer she could give to her mother. Her head bent down onto the flooring, biting the bottom of her lips. Ms. Ripley stood on her feet, and left with the box, leaving her daughter hesitantly on the wooden floor. Oaklyn was terrified of the hidden notes. She waited until dinner, over her mothers roasted chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, sitting around the long walnut-colored table. Beneath the family photographs, Oaklyn ate silently, wishing she could apologize promptly to her grandmother.S h ia B alliThe Sound Of Becoming
Ms. Ripley realized she missed the signs. She missed the daughter who used to speak with freedom and encouraged her to find a place where she, herself, can belong. So she requested her daughter to join an extracurricular activity; a club, team, program, or even volunteer work. The next day, Oaklyn followed her mother’s advice, and searched for a place to fit in. She spotted a navy poster outside her AP US History classroom; Write What You Can’t Say We’ll LOVE To Hear It At The Creative Writing Club! Join After 9th Period Rm 200 That message was Oaklyn’s calling to become a member at the Creative Writing Club. She wrote things in her journal she never could’ve said outloud, and was amused that maybe if these people relied on their word—she can gain friends for the first time and get involved in their own little worlds that's not as isolated as hers. Later in the afternoon, Oaklyn climbed up the stretched staircases that ascended to the second floor. She followed the navy room numbers until she founded Room 200. The classroom door swung open to a room filled with voices. Oaklyn wondered if this would become another place where she would disappear. She slowly tapped into the room, a boy with messy chestnut-brown hair wearing a green hoodie approached her eagerly. “Wow…we got a new member, guys! What’s your name?” “O-Oaklyn…” It was the first time she ever spoke so casually before, even in a loud setting. “Welcome to the club, Oaklyn! My name is Leonard–but you can just call me Leon.” He chuckled. “We’re doing a story circle, come join us!” Leon welcomed her into the story circle, where students shared their writing without judgement. As she pays attention to the members, she recognizes that all of them are patiently listening–not even making fun of their silly little stories that Oaklyn thought would be funny to squander. Time ticks like a stone into still water, only for it to drown when Leon asked Oaklyn to share one of her stories inside of her journal. He noticed it when she pressed it close to her chest as she entered timidly. Nervous, Oaklyn opened her journal and read an excerpt aloud. Instead of laughter and uninterested faces, came applause. For the first time in years, people listened. At the end of the meeting, Oaklyn was friends with almost all of the members of the club. She found her voice amongst the obnoxious noises she heard earlier inside of that classroom before joining the club—it was only waiting for someone to listen.