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Poem
they called her lucky —
because she never had to pay the bill
for her own silence.
because someone always pulled the chair,
held the door,
told her she was “too precious to bleed.”

they gave her things
soft enough to confuse her skin into forgetting
what it’s like
to be wild.

but she knew —
deep down,
a golden cage is still a cage.

she learned to smile
with lips stitched shut
and wear the dress of dignity
like it wasn’t choking her ribs.

they said,
"you’re so graceful,"
but never asked what it cost
to hold that much grace
in hands that only wanted to break things.

she kept hoping
that someone would see the cracks
not as flaws,
but as places where the light was trying to get in.

but they only saw the mess.
they only loved her
when she was unbroken,
quiet,
beautiful in ways they understood.

so she learned
to bleed internally —
to cry only in bathrooms
with the tap running.

to scream
in ways no one could hear —
like cleaning the kitchen twice
when she already did it once,
like over-apologizing
for taking up space.

she started talking to the mirror.
not because it had answers,
but because it didn’t interrupt. 

and one day,
she didn’t smile back.
she just whispered,
“I miss you.”

not the woman they made,
but the girl she buried
under all the “shoulds.”

and that night —
not loud,
not dramatic,
not even brave —
she simply stopped asking
for permission.

and maybe,
the world won’t applaud her for it.
maybe they’ll say she lost her way.

but she knows —
losing their version of you
is the first step
to remembering
your own name.

no suitcase dragging behind like a metaphor.
she just woke up
one morning,
and stopped folding herself.

she wore her voice
like skin.
not loud.
just present.

and when they said,
“you’ve changed,”
she didn’t flinch.
she smiled,
the kind of smile
that knows what it cost
to return to your own bones.

she still remembers
how easy it was
to disappear politely.
but now —
she writes her name
in full.

no longer a hostage.
no longer a pretty prisoner.

just
a woman,
wild in her softness,
unapologetic in her becoming,
and finally —
free.

First, Be Human

disown all your privilege —
the velvet cages,
the praise wrapped in chains,
the softness used to silence you.

don't be a woman.
not first.
not only.
Be human.

your freedom won’t come
wrapped in roses or rituals.
it will come
the day you stop being
what they told you you were born to be.
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