Breanne Anderson

Trapped by tradition. Freed by knowledge.
Beauty is truth, truth beauty.
Incapable of ignorance, yearning for more,
yet bound by the traditions of fathers.
Caged by duty. Confidants are rare,
silence is plenty. I am sick, scared, lost.
Following tradition means losing myself, chaining
myself to the inescapable bondage of men that
belong to my father. Not myself. I am trapped.
It’s choking, constricting. My mind cries for release,
every bone in my body screams to get out. The lights
at the end of the tunnel are slowly disappearing
as the maze of books gets longer. I spend my days
here lost in something that isn’t nor could ever be
my life. Not yet. Not now. Maybe someday.
First, I just must tell him.