The Broken Scribe

I write from the cracks they told me to hide. Queer. Cultural. Conflicted. This is where my silence ends. 📍 In Between Tradition & Truth 🔥 Words burn where I cannot speak 💌 Anonymous — but never voiceless

[thebrokenscribe]

Not everyone you're trying to save is meant to be saved by you

[thebrokenscribe]

You don't need to taste the whole sea to know if it's salty

[thebrokenscribe]

You Can't Cage A Soul

You Can’t Cage a Soul

You can’t cage a soul

that was built from the pain.

I was born in the fire,

but I did not burn

I became the flame.

Every scar on me

is not a chain,

it is a map,

a story written in survival ink.

They tried to break me,

but all they did

was teach me

how to bend without snapping.

You can lock doors,

you can throw away keys,

but you will never silence

the storm inside me.

Because pain did not kill me

it crafted me,

molded me,

sharpened me into truth.

So remember this:

you can bruise my skin,

you can shake my faith,

but you can’t cage a soul

that was built from the pain.

[thebrokenscribe]

[thebrokenscribe]

[thebrokenscribe]

[thebrokenscribe]

Title:In Between

Leaving life behind the shadow,

Stuck between these two faces I wore just to fit in.

One for them, stitched in silence.

One for me—hidden deep, under skin.

See, I was raised on stories

Where daughters obey, where love is straight,

Where shame wears a mother’s voice,

And pride is something you must translate.

Where the word “lesbian” tastes like betrayal—

Like burning holy books, like spitting on the flag.

Where I can’t bring a woman home,

But they’ll bring a man to my door in a suit and drag.

I carry my culture in my bones—

But does it still claim me, if I love like this?

If I cut my hair, wear boots instead of bangles,

If I kiss her in the dark and call it bliss?

I am torn cloth—

A saree with seams unraveled.

Half tradition, half rebellion,

A walking war no map has traveled.

They say “choose,”

But I am not a choice.

Not a phase, not confused,

Not a silenced voice.

I am fire and forgiveness.

I am the daughter and the storm.

I am the love they don’t speak of—

Still sacred, still warm.

But it hurts—

God, it hurts to be a secret.

To speak in coded glances,

To trade truth for peace and never keep it.

Sometimes I hate them—for making me choose.

And sometimes I hate me—for loving them still.

But maybe—maybe—

Healing isn’t clean. Maybe strength is not the absence of guilt.

So here I am—

Not broken.

Not whole.

Just real.

I am the girl in between.

The love that dared. The culture that dreamed.

And one day, I won’t wear two faces to be seen—

Just one. Just mine. Just finally...

Free.