Safe...

WE ARE NOT SAFE

---

In Nebraska—

there’s a city called Whiteclay.

Population: a whole nine people 

In the town there are 2 streets. 

A liquor store sits on each of the 4 corners.

…

We are not safe.

They say gossip

is a survival mechanism—

Our brains wired through connection

just to keep us breathing.

So, if I talk about you,

my heart keeps beating—

But that don’t mean empathy.

Don’t mean your pain

teaches me anything.

No guarantee, for example,

That you’ll find it poetic

that the Israeli government is actually 

anti-Semitic.

We are not safe.

We watch misery

through ivory windows.

Curl up

trying to stay warm—

wrapped in a shield

as strong as Styrofoam.

Safety?

Is a desert mirage—

blinding us

to people dying of thirst

because they made it illegal in Gaza

to even collect rain...

…

Whiteclay Nebraska—

Is right on the edge of Pine Ridge Reservation 

Three million cans of beer sold on those four corners in a year.

Guess the color of the people who drank them...

We are not safe.

We can hit the store

at 3 a.m.—

and although if we buy Skittles and iced tea-

We might not make it home

to Mama.

But at least—

when the ice cream truck comes—

no drone is turning our children

into afterlife statistics.

We are not safe.

But we think we are—

scrolling…

arguing about Drake, k

endrick

Kanye, Epstein or

Diddy—

like distraction

is a life raft.

No.

We are not safe.

We never been.

Light skin.

Good hair.

All Inherited hate.

We fight for Section 8

because they won’t let us buy—

Because, how can property

own property?

That ain’t gang violence

you hear at night—

that’s just the police—

still mad they lost

their slave-catcher badges

Shooting black bodies

into the chalk outlines

they leave behind.

I’m still waiting

on my 40 acres—

and that last 40%

that would make me constitutionally human.

Instead—

 We get 40 years to life 

for daring

to dream the same dream of forgotten Philistines.

We scream for reparations—

They ship it overseas.

Turn it into bombs.

Drop it on babies.

Signed it with their autographs.

…

Those babies—

pressed into soil

become oil—

pumped into pipelines,

into cars—

and we drive—

wondering why the exhaust

smells like copper

Smells Like blood.

We are not safe.

We can’t even speak freely—

algorithms

turn truth

into punishment.

We are not safe.

Because we choose silence.

Hope the bombs we made

don’t come back

like boomerangs.

We see mothers—

holding children—

lowered into mass graves—

and look away

like we do sitting

at red lights.

We are not safe—

so we stay quiet.

…

But not all of us.

Some of us remember—

Stokely said

tell Mississippi

all the scared niggas are dead.

I survived the gunshot to the face

So fear don’t move me.

You don’t know the history that I know—

You don't know that daybwhen he spoke His defiance

MLK was literally standing right beside him

I don’t imagine Malcolm

I just look in the mirror.

I see survival smiling

with a bullet scar.

So yeah—

I know we not safe.

That’s why I stay ready.

…

And my son—

he gon’ learn early.

I threw away his sippy cups—

So he won’t drink the Kool-Aid.

He’ll know:

silence ain’t safety.

Your voice—

that’s your shield.

…

...In Maxton, North Carolina.

1958.

The Klan showed up for a rally

the Indigenous showed out with their rifles

Muzzles spoke a war dance. White hoods ran off with buckshot in their asses

Now, that day is a state holiday.

…

So my son gon’ know—

He ain’t just Black.

My tribe is:

Youcancatchthesehands.

From the Fight Back Mountains.

We got Two rules:

Don’t talk about my mama.

Protect all the babies,

And our tribe—

you’ll find it in DC, Chicago, Texas Denver, and Palestine.

…

We may not be safe.

But we stay free.

We may not be safe—

But we stay free.

We are not safe—

but as long as we breathe—

We may not be safe-

But will always be dangerous...

---

 

Now That I Am Free

Now That I Am Free

My hiatus is over—
Black is back to being the New Black.

The prodigal son has returned,
so yes… you can call it a comeback.

I came from a place
where my humanity
was put on pause—

where my name
was replaced by a number,
a mathematical brainwash
that reduced me
to a temporary zero.

So forgive the frown
that now functions as my smile.

Forgive the thirty tattoos—
indelible badges of boredom,
some etched by my own hand
with sharpened staples
dipped in homemade ink—

a thousand pricks
piercing my epidermis
like a knife in the hands of an ex-wife,
leaving permanent protests that scream:

“I am still somebody.”

---

Now that I am free—
will you give me a job?

I brought my résumé.
My transcripts are stamped
by the Hard Knock University.

My alma mater gives no diplomas—
just scars
that read like calligraphy
on parchment skin.

Here’s my cover letter:
a career in microeconomics—

I’m fluent in the economy of 2-for-1,
where cigarettes and ramen noodles
can purchase a whole person.

---

Now that I am free—
will you help me find a home?

I saved what I could
from years of prison labor—

worked my way up
from kitchen duty
to manufacturing your license plates
for a dollar a day.

I might have enough
for a deposit.

I don’t need much—
my last place was just wide enough
to stretch my arms
and touch both walls at once.

Anything will do…
as long as I don’t have to breathe
another man’s feet,
or press my face through steel bars
while someone else uses the toilet.

---

Now that I am free—
I just want a real meal.

Something honest.

Where I used to dine,
everything was made out of turkey—
and the turkey
was made out of soybeans.

I’ve eaten ramen
for 2,920 days.

Even my tears
taste like chicken flavor packets.

You got seafood?

Let me tell you about the one time
they served gumbo—

tiny shrimp… real shrimp—

and the whole chow hall
fell into a silence
thick as the moment before a stabbing,
or the breath before a riot.

Then I realized—
it wasn’t fear.

It was memory.

That smell
had every man in that room
thinking about somebody
he used to love.

---

Now that I am free—
maybe I should find love again.

It’s been 2,920 days.

If she looks good…
I won’t mind
if she smells like gumbo.

And no—
it’s not always what you saw on TV.

But sometimes… it is.

Some men trade themselves
for stamps and candy bars.

I’ve seen a few of them out here—
in malls, with girlfriends,
eyes lowered when they pass me—

hoping what happened inside
stays buried
like Vegas promises.

---

Now that I am free—
forgive me in advance
for the nightmares.

Forgive me
when I wake ready to fight
because something
went bump in the night.

Don’t trip over the knife—
one in my pocket,
one under my pillow.

Don’t question
the all-black wardrobe,
or why it might take me years
to wear orange or green again.

Don’t move my things
without asking.

Don’t trust me
to trust you with my laundry.

In prison,
they will steal even your underwear.

---

I learned things in there—

how to make a stove
from toilet paper,
how to carve statues
from soap,

how to turn a broken radio
into a tattoo gun,

how to weave threads
from tube socks
into bracelets worth
a pack of ramen.

But now…

I need to learn new skills.

Like choosing toothpaste
from a hundred options.

Like not assuming
every closed door
is locked.

Like riding a bus
without shackles.

Like sitting on a rooftop
watching the sun
rise and set
at the same time in my spirit.

Like walking into 7-Eleven
at 3 a.m.
just because
I’m craving freedom.

---

Now that I am free—
can you help me be done?

Done with doing time.

Teach me how to shower
without flip-flops.

How to eat
with metal forks
on real plates.

Help me be free—
like Harriet Tubman
was my parole officer.

Help me forget my number
and reclaim my name.

---

Now that I am free—
I don’t just need freedom.

I need completion.

I need closure.

I need to be done
with doing time…

Because now—

I’m just getting started

with doing life.

---

🔥 

Dear Kobe

 Dear Kobe

I hope where you’re at it’s more peaceful now 

And you and Gianna are playing two on two

With Prince and Trayvon

You can probably guess that when you left
it got just a little crazy

Jordan and Shaq cried big ol baby tears 

and everybody including me posted dope ass memes 

And if we have our way 

your silhouette will become the NBA’s new logo 

Dear Kobe

You left behind some beautiful things

Your daughters, your highlights and that hashtag girl dad 

But as you can guess, you also left a mess behind

Trump is still president and he's bound to get reelected

Patriarchy is still alive although it might have to start apologizing

Niggas still wear their Bill Cosby cape
and still downloading r Kelly tapes 

And by tape, I mean the child porn not 12 play

I know you saw that Lizzo thing 

And that it made you shake your head

But if empowerment means 

Cutting out your skirt's ass cheeks

Then patriarchy sho aint dead

Is it just me 

or is there just a bit of misogynistic irony

That “real ass bitch, give a fuck about a nigga”

Was actually written by a nigga?

Dear Kobe

I loved seeing Gianna bring you out of retirement 

My own daughter doesn't talk to me anymore

She's mad over bullshit that'll take her years to get over 

She's embarrassed more than she realizes 

Over not meeting the unreasonable Expectations 

that I have set for her stupidly

So she blocked me on all the social media platforms 

Not realizing that I can still see her

Scantily clad and smoking major weed

But I been a girl dad so I keep tabs

She knows I named her Umarah,
after a Muslim woman warrior

But she doesn’t know...

When I brought her home,

I bought this little pink mirror 

That I would place in front of her face

Just to make sure she was breathing

So that SIDS would never visit her crib

She doesn’t know

I would stay up at night until dawn broke

Until it became the habit that made me the night owl I am today

She doesn't know that her tenacity and strong will are every bit of me

So on every silent day that passes 

I stay proud that her stubborn ass carries my DNA

Dear Kobe

While you’re up there, holler at my hero Harriet

Tell her we apologize for that unremarkable movie

Ask her for her patience, we really only just got free

I mean, we did put a brother up in Pennsylvania  Ave

But we still gang ganging over streets 

We’re only paying rent to live on

Tell her don’t yet throw us in the trash

We’re starting to run a Lil bit

With the baton she passed us

But tell her to keep her pistol in her knapsack

And her knife in her boot

There’s definitely some coons and sambos she’s

Gonna hafta shoot 

In the meantime there’s hope: we’re out here more like Russell Wilson

And less like Russell Simmons

Dear Kobe

Joni Mitchell didn’t lie

Even the value of those ugly adidas space boots has gone sky hi

And everybody wants to talk about the rape case that died before you did

I wish these commentators grilled you before your death

Instead of asking for your autograph before you left,

I’m glad you had that sit down with the Big Diesel

I hope that you had plans to one day talk about that night down in Eagle

It’s that dark tar pit we been running from for 500 years

It’s becoming time we stop, sit, and put our hand in it 

Up to our elbows to grab and grasp all that pain, trauma and heartache

And lay it out in the sun,

To let it dry up like the raisins Langston wrote about

We have got to be able to reconcile with our Vanessas and our Giannas 

Make sure our malias and Sasha’s don’t turn into Thotianas

How we could have been fuck bois and then fathers with lil mambas?

How do you live a life where you leave a woman skeetfaced and bleeding

To go home to your perfect wife?

The only second thought for a thot being how much her silence can be bought for

Dear Kobe:

Not that you’re misogyny’s poster boy

That problem’s been around since Adam

Some say #metoo started with Mary

And that Josesph must’ve known how a Black slave in the South felt

When his wife gave birth to a light skinned baby

You'da been better off taking your anger out on Shaq

Insteada chokin a Lil white girl from the back

But then again

We ain’t quite ready to talk that freely about Mandingos revenge

Dear Kobe:

My stepdaughter Jannah doesn’t talk to me either

She mad cuz I was a mean parent and I called out her molester

When everyone wants to keep that skeleton in a closet

Despite the fact that it reaches out to grab her by the throat in her nightmares

But I know she is really mad at her mama for not protecting her

Mad at her daddy for abandoning her

Mad her the other stepdad for stealing her trust with is blunted fingers

But it’s okay-

She’s the dope mother artist and poet

I molded her to be 

As if she were my own seed

And so on silent days that scream over her apprehension

Her art sings me a song of appreciation

Dear Kobe:

If you see my other lovely stepdaughter Shwayyah

Give her a kiss and tell her I pray every day for her

Before she left we she called me Daddy

And those words fill all the silence I could ever face

Dear Kobe:

In the end even tho I’ma always be team Jordan

I can’t help admire the ferocity and audacity

That fueled you to 5 rings

Like u I learned to walk thru fire 

And stand up strong on the end a bonafide champion,

Thank u for the oohs and ahs

Thank u for those ugly shoes

Thank u for that precocious 18 year old pro

Thank u for not flinching at Matt Barnes

Thank u for copying Jordan

That was a precious lesson that we can and should clone and reproduce Black excellence

Dear Kobe:

I got this kid on the way who is my redemption personified

A note that God wrote with His sonogram signature at the bottom

If it’s a girl I’ma name her after my mama

But in yours and Giannas honor I’ma nickname her “lil mamba”

My child will benefit from all my mistakes and good decisions I made

I’ll show them your highlights 

So they can learn to read human poetry

I’ll teach to hoop and yell out your name after every swish

So know that of all the things that we say you are 

You left this world the best thing any man can be

With Giannaa clutched in your arms

You left this world as “Daddy"...

A Red Letter - reply to the Period Poem

Once upon a time a princess lived with her evil step mother
And one nite, the moon turned full and red and fell into her lap
So she bled...

But the evil stepmother made her sit
Still and stoic in the middle of her menses
Waiting for her father to ride home to the rescue
And the evil stepmother - who would not even give
The princess as much as a regular napkin
Went on to write the celebrated Period Poem

Oh, it had all the simile and imagery
Of an ode to Girl Power and a smackdown to patriarchy
But like all those stories about Columbus and Betsy Ross
The period poem was just a blood-clot fairy tale

Written by a siren who lied on her husband
And forged her own mother's name to pay for the
Fake breasts that she stole

Perhaps that’s why the period poem feels paper thin like onion skin

Fabricated like the author’s freckles

Courtesy a tattoo gun – not actually a kiss of sun

Like the author leads us to believe

But, any façade with holes in it is easy to see thru

And a snake may have spots but with a leopard it's never confused

The rust in this harpy’s heart makes her kisses taste like irony

And while her hips used to be my chalice

I could never drink her Koolaide

I watched her too many times put on hijabi headscarves and

Pretend facing Mecca only to pray to the false idol

In her own mirror

As an actual Muslim, I never bought the Bible Myth

Never thought God made women bleed simply cuz

Eve convinced Adam to eat from the apple tree

If that were really true, then Adam was the one who had the vagina

Some say cupping is a healing ritual for bad blood

Others say its masochism

So I guess I have to suffer her back stabs

Till she gets sick of kissing Massa

She likes to cover my cuts with her diva cups

To collect my blood for a burnt offering

Because her own bone marrow is dis-Abeled like Cain’s

Dear Dominique

Time to let this protest go and

Stop using your menstrual flow for a minstrel show

You’re acting no better than Doctor Sims mutilating his slave Anarcha

To give the world the gift of gynecology and

A product we ironically call Stay Free

And it may just be me, but when you abort

The fetus of your teenaged lover who used to be your student

You no longer get to call yourself an "educator"

But pedophiles are like hemophiliacs on heavy days

So you’ll probably hemorrhage your humanity away 

But no one is fooled anymore by your pools of fake blood

No one  really confuses you for Audre or Gwendolyn

And you’ll never be an Angela or Assata born again

No – You be the Judas, blowing kisses of betrayal

Bleeding out into a potters field

You be like that Black nurse down in Tuskegee

Spreading syphilis to her own people

Youre the FBI snitch giving up Fred Hampton’s apartment blueprint

You be the self-hate that blew Malcolm away

And no matter how many times they

Update your image, you’re still the same old Aunt Jemima

With house negro blood still bleeding thru your parentheses

As for me, I have plenty of problems but "lying bitch" aint one

So I wrote 99 verses to nail on open mic temple doors

Dear Dominique, you get a big fat red F on your test and on your chest

For failing Aunty Carlotta’s legacy

For misappropriating #believeblackwomen

And for inspiring #SheLiedOnMeToo

What happened to Epstein and Cosby might just happen to you

And I hope they get R Kelly soon

In the meantime Ill be doing my best Hannibal Burress impression,

Laughing while her ugly sweater slowly unravels

And that princess at the beginning of the story turned out just fine

Because she bleeds the same DNA as mine

 That  lil soldier sat still and stoic in the middle of her menses, unbothered,

Praising Allah for unconditional love of her father

Oh,and  remember the moral of the story:

Try to touch  and get touched back

Some like to think they run with wolves

But me, Im an Alpha – I run the whole pack

This  here's a red letter
Written by a aqua bearer
Dedicated to my Aquarius daughter
Cuz our blood gets thicker
When its mixed in with water

But lemme just note - 

That this is just a prequel

The end of this poem is a. Dot dot dot, and 

I’ve already written a sequel…

Gorgoneion...

You expect triumph here.

Don’t.

Decapitation is not climax.

It is quiet.

You know what they don’t tell you about losing your body?

You keep thinking.

Even after.

Especially after.

I became portable power.

Weaponized.

Held up like proof.

“See? Monster slain.”

You still expect triumph here.

But listen —

When you are reduced to a head,

you finally see everything.

No ego in the limbs.

No performance in the hips.

No seduction in the spine.

Just consciousness.

Do you know what it feels like to become a logo?

To watch your face stitched onto luxury?

Versaced.

My serpents frozen in gold.

My agony redesigned as opulence.

My myth marketed.

You really expect triumph here.

I was once violated in a temple.

Now I hang in boutiques.

Tell me which is holier.

Existence is cruel like that.

You suffer.

You rage.

You’re hunted.

You’re severed.

And then —

you’re aesthetic.

You expected triumph here.

I am not proud.

I am not redeemed.

I am not even angry anymore.

I am aware.

The patriarchy created me.

The hero ended me.

Capitalism accessorized me.

And somewhere a little girl sees my face on a handbag

and thinks:

“She looks powerful.”

Maybe she is.

Maybe that’s the tragedy.

There was never triumph here.

I was never a monster.

I was a mirror.

And no one —

not god,

not hero,

not designer —

survives their own reflection forever...

Early Harvest

Before I begin this next piece,

I want to say something clearly.

This poem deals with themes of grooming,

manipulation,

and the targeting of innocence.

If that touches something personal for you,

please take care of yourself.

Scroll away if you need to.

Pause. Breathe. Come back later — or don’t.

You don’t owe this poem your discomfort.

You don’t owe this page your retraumatization.

There is no weakness in protecting your peace.

I wrote this poem in response to a challenge

from a spoken word curator during Mental Health Month —

a challenge to write about pain.

But instead of doing something generic,

I wanted to write something raw,

something layered,

something that hits.

This piece is called Early Harvest...

Eve was such a narcissist—

Self-centered and selfish.

Pulled out of Adam’s rib so cleanly

That her heart was left behind.

Her chest cavity lined with lead and filled with ego;

No wonder she was easy prey for Shaitan to snake his way in,

Like manhood entering a Vagina Monologue about low self-esteem.

You gotta catch ’em young.

Why couldn’t Eve just leave well enough alone?

Just follow one simple rule: don’t eat the fruit.

A rule so simple, the fruit didn’t even have a name,

But her brain was so stuck on E(go), she got played by the game.

Using her wiles to confuse poor Adam,

Who acted like a bull with a ring in his nose,

Following Eve right into eviction.

Heaven's loss was so traumatic

Every generation feels its absence coiled in its DNA,

And Eve just walks away,

Stamping her heel down on the devil's head—

Red bottoms dancing a toxic tango.

You gotta catch them young…

Because when they get older, they only pretend to love you.

Pain and misery will be your lover,

Malice your mistress,

So you decide to love her horizontally—

For only as long as her id stays vertical.

Play her private parts like a piano,

Her blood on keys,

Making dots only you can connect.

Kisses on her navel meant to save her from herself,

So she doesn't become Jezebel or the liar who locked up the Prophet Joseph.

Kiss her and turn her into Aaliyah,

Instead of that Hooters girl who tells me lies

Just to get me to buy a few more buffalo wings.

You gotta catch ’em young...

Okay, maybe Eve shouldn't bear all the blame;

After all, the wife before her left chasing the kiss of demons,

Rather be a succubus than a servant.

They say trauma demands retribution.

So if I stab stubby fingers at the flower of my four-year-old stepdaughter,

Just pretend I'm not being abusive;

I'm just being a shaman with the healer's touch.

I pray hard she keeps quiet;

If I get caught, it won't cost me too much.

I'll just keep pretending I'm Muslim.

Maybe wear my kufi tighter,

Lift my prayer rug a little higher,

So the community can sweep its complicity under it swiftly,

Hiding away all our pain while we point fingers at other religions.

Even though the mosque is no different than the cathedral—

We both got pulpits that sit on deep pits of dark secrets,

Secrets that I whisper in her shivering ear.

Let this be justice for all the Salomes that killed Johns,

For Cleopatra, Medusa, and Nicki Minaj.

This is reparation for being blamed in long poems and for deep pain,

For Lot’s daughters who preyed on their father

All because he went ghost on their mama.

I caught you young, but I think you're ready.

Don’t tell nobody and I will buy you that Barbie,

That Brat doll, that Easy-Bake Oven.

And when you outgrow me, I'll buy you the latest teen fashion and your first cell phone.

I’ll pop up at your school and cheer for you on field day,

And no one will know why you tense up or glance away

At family get-togethers or at the end of Ramadan.

And I’ll be okay—I’ll always remember what your tears taste like.

Knowing I am in your pores will be an intimate satisfaction.

Subconsciously, you will compare all of your boyfriends to me.

The only place you’ll spill our secret is a marble journal,

Because I have ingeniously sculpted you

Like a maniacal Michelangelo,

Convinced you that no one could love you like I do,

That only someone my age could see you for who you really are.

"This is nothing sexual," as everyone is told;

It’s just... being with you makes me forget that I'm old.

You gotta catch them young—

It’s not my fault -  you came on to me!

My arms and lap became your solace because

Your mama doesn’t really love you like she does the job she leaves you for at night;

Your daddy doesn’t love you as much as he loves hating your mama.

So don’t worry, if the weight of me on your mind gets too heavy to carry,

I’ll teach you to transfer your anger onto the next

Man your mama marries;

After all, he’ll probably be tall, mean, and scary.

I’m confident your scars will heal if you keep them out of the light

And keep me away from your little sister.

And in time, the mistake of your mother Eve will be forgiven,

And we’ll all eventually be able to get back into heaven,

Where we’ll get to eat the fruit,

And finally learn its name...

Chaka...

I was four...

when rhythm became religion.

The television glowed like revelation,

a static halo around a Black woman

who did not ask permission

to be magnificent.

It was Soul Train—

dancers like orbiting planets,

lights blinking like a spaceship headed somewhere holy—

and then there was her.

Chaka.

I didn’t have the vocabulary for desire.

Didn’t know what a crush was.

Didn’t understand hips or heat

or why my small chest felt like it was opening

from the inside.

All I knew was something grabbed me.

The bassline walked in first—

confident.

The drums followed,

like a heartbeat I hadn’t yet discovered in myself.

And then her voice—

Her voice wasn’t singing.

It was commanding atoms.

It bent the air.

It told gravity to behave.

And there I was—

four years old,

too young to know what longing was,

old enough to feel it rearrange me.

Something happened in my body.

Not yet sexual.

But seismic.

Like my spirit leaned forward

and said:

There...

That...

That is what beauty sounds like.

She shimmered.

Hair wild like freedom.

Skin radiant like she had swallowed the sun,

and decided to glow on purpose.

I fell in love without knowing

that love could even fall.

I wanted...

I just wanted to stay in that sound—

that place where rhythm and woman

became indistinguishable.

Years later I would learn words:

attraction,

aesthetics,

erotic,

divine feminine.

But at four?

It was more simple:

I saw a Black woman

unapologetically powerful.

I heard music that felt like truth.

And my heart—

still soft with baby fat and innocence—

recognized something it would spend a lifetime chasing.

A man's first crush

is not about the woman.

It is about awakening.

Chaka did not know

that somewhere

a little boy sat cross-legged on carpet

having his first lesson

in beauty.

But she was the first woman

who made me feel

that rhythm

and reverence

could live

in the same body...

"You Made Me" (Medusa)

You want a monster?

Fine.

But say my name correctly.

Not curse.
Not cautionary tale.
Not bedtime warning to fragile sons.

Say it.

Me.
Du.
Sa.

You made me this.

Before the snakes.
Before the stone.
Before my hair learned how to hiss.

There was a girl in a temple.

And a god.

And silence.

And men who protect power more than they protect women.

You made me this.

Patriarchy does not birth monsters — it drafts them.

It needs villains so heroes have employment.

You call me venomous.

But who crowned him divine? Who translated violation into mythology? Who edited my scream into scenery?

You made me this.

You say I turn men to stone.

No.

Men turn themselves to stone when confronted with consequence without reflection.

And yes — I inked my body.

Layer after layer.

Armor disguised as art.

Freckles tattooed across my face — tiny constellations of control.

Every needle said: “If they will look, then let them look on my terms.”

You call it vanity.

You call it chaos.

You call it attention-seeking.

You made me this.

Sometimes I say “victim” because it is the only language people respect.

Sometimes I stretch the wound so the room stretches toward me.

If the world only gathers around broken women —

watch me fracture beautifully.

You made me this.

But listen carefully now.

I was not born with snakes.

I was crowned with them.

I was not born monstrous.

I was renamed.

I was not dangerous.

I was unprotected.

And when protection fails, transformation begins.

You made me this.

So do not tremble now.

Do not act surprised that I learned how to survive in the shape you handed me.

You needed a monster.

And I needed to live.

So I adapted.

And if my gaze burns —

it is only because you taught me that softness was fatal.

You made me this.

Say it.

Say it louder than the myth.

You.
Made.
Me.
This.

© Brother Taj

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