All my life called a child, a little girl, a young lady, unladylike.
Rebellious, spiteful, wild,
unsubmissive.

I hate that last word, by the way.
Unsubmissive.

What they really meant was wild wind beating against ribs,
a hurricane trapped in my skin.

What they really meant was: I’m small, so let’s make her smaller still.
What they tried to do was put a raging storm in a tiny box
and take credit for creating peace.

What they tried to do was press a wild thing into the ground
and bury it under shame
until my neck forgot how to lift my head.

What am I really?

A black hole behind my eyes swallowing 
their small minds.
A raging ocean breaking in my chest--
black waves swallowing their pride.
A fire under my skin
that never learned how to go out.
A forest fire no rain can quench--
and they are afraid.

Afraid of my voice turning against them.
Afraid of vengeful tears that don’t ask 
permission anymore.

Opened wings not for beauty, but for protection,
for sheltering innocent souls they tried to break,
for the sound of grief turning animal in my 
mouth.

Howls ripping open throat like wild wolves
at those who tried to tear me apart.
And I tore back.

I am free and untamed, an innocent child 
violated.

A little girl forced to be a woman.
A little girl carrying a woman’s weight in her spine.
A little girl raising children not from her womb but from her heart.
A little girl with cracked ribs and a raw throat,
breathing like something half-drowned.

A shaking voice scraping itself out of my body:

Enough.
Enough.


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