The last time you raised your hand

"The Last Time You Raised Your Hand" This is the last time you raise your hand against me. This skin, this temple, this war-torn body you tried to claim — I take it back. You thought love was something you could twist at the wrist, bend at the knee, snap at the neck of my dreams — but I am unbreaking. I have stitched myself up with the thread of every woman who ever whispered "Not today." I am their chorus now, I am their hurricane. You called me weak. You called me small. You called me yours — but my name was never yours to speak. My voice, a blade. My body, a fortress. My spirit, a revolution written in bruises that now bloom into banners. I have learned: that survival is not silent. That healing screams. That freedom wears scars like medals. You built a cage from apologies and fear — but I grew wings inside it. I am breaking every lock with my own hands. Watch me. This house will not echo with broken things anymore. Not my bones. Not my spirit. Not my future. The last time you raised your hand was the first time I saw it for what it was — the beginning of your end. I am not your silence. I am not your punching bag prayers. I am not your cycle. I am the crack in the wall where the light gets in. I am the voice calling every sister, every brother: Stand. Speak. Fight back. This — is the last time. This — is the beginning of mine.