They killed his voice

He hid behind the hallways,
carrying insults like chains,
every word was a bullet,
every laugh, a blade through his veins.

They silenced his voice with beatings,
erased his dignity with scorn,
and no one reached out a hand,
as if his pain were some form of sport.

Loneliness became his executioner,
tears, sharp knives on his skin;
he wrote in rage on the paper:
“They won’t laugh at me again.”

He hung his hope from a rope,
in a small and silent room;
when the door opened at dawn,
only silence was left hanging.

There were no heroes, no late apologies,
only a body, cold in the dark;
bullying offers no second chances,
only graveyards full of questions.