"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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