Poem/story from the woman's point of view.
It can’t be ignored.
The thoughts, feelings, pains I feel.
I tell them, but they don’t listen.
Don’t I matter to them?
They say I’ll be fine, but I don’t know how to believe it.
I don’t feel fine.
I feel weak, weary, hungry for understanding.
I can’t get rid of it.
All I have are my words;
My secret words that fill my secret pages in this not so secret tomb of silence and solitude.
And this wallpaper, this horrid yellow wallpaper.
The hideous color – a smoldering, unclean yellow – faded by the sunlight.
The torturing pattern - irritatingly flamboyant – outrageous and contradicting.
I could never spend more than the necessary time here.
Thankfully, John has only rented the house for three months.
Why do they let me stare at this all day?
I’d much rather look at my child than gawk at dreadful “decorative” materials.
But they won’t let me.
They keep me here.
They keep me here against my will.
They keep me here to rest.
How much rest does a woman need?
I’ll rest if they say I must, but they can’t keep me from writing.
I don’t want to, and I don’t feel able to.
But I must find some sense of relief!
He tells me I’m getting better.
I’m trying my hardest to believe it’s true.
They keep looking at the paper.
Why?
They’re not allowed.
They try to study the pattern, but no one shall find it out but myself!
I’m feeling better.
I’ve gained back my appetite.
I’ve grown quieter.
But I don’t think she’s okay.
I know she’s there.
I’ve seen her.
She crawls, she shakes, she wants to be free.
I want to be free.
Freedom can’t come for me yet.
I’ll find it on my own.
It’s the last day.
She was shaking last night; shaking and crawling.
I helped her.
I pulled and she shook, I shook and she pulled.
Before the dawn, most of the paper had been cleared off the wall.
John is at the door.
I’ve locked it.
I’ve thrown the key.
He wants to get in.
I want to get out.
He can’t put me back in!
I just want to be free.
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