He knows what took place,
That’s why he goes first in the storytelling.
She finds his truth and knows her own,
That's why the predator silences her storytelling.
The predator knows the power of voice,
So it cloaks its own in righteousness for many
And uses that of both of them
To
Steal his pain to fuel its lies,
Twist her truth to its advantage.
It speaks for them both.
Turning their stories into weapons,
Speaking in tones that echo hers,
Twisting his truth into the predator's advantage.
From there moving forward,
The rest of the story is open to a public forum.
But while the truth is buried beneath layers of lies,
No amount of manipulation can erase,
What the heart knows to be real.
So the predator puts on her face,
And changes her role in the eyes of many,
By what the predator does under her profile,
Using her name,
Wearing her image,
Damage being done under a guise,
Puppet strings pulled,
A persona created.
She is no longer credible.
So now they call her a demon, they call her a witch,
She whispered the secrets the predator wished to bury,
of the truth that begged to be spoken.
They put her in competition with goodness,
But she knows the truth they refuse to see,
That goodness is not a crown nor a medal worn by the righteous.
She does not come with pretty speeches or angelic wings,
Just the weight of a thousand unspoken truths
And eyes that have seen too much to ignore.
In her eyes, the fire of destruction,
the spark that shatters falsehoods,
and the warmth that heals the broken.
For true power lies not in one,
but in the dance of both.
Her light is not the soft glow of complacency,
It is the blaze of truth blinding in its clarity,
More radiant than any darkness they could ever conjure,
And darker than any false light can penetrate.
She is the integrity of the heart that refuses to turn away.
She is the pulse of that fight
She is the breath in the lungs of the oppressed,
She is the quiet strength in the face of cruelty.
She does not compete for goodness,
She is the embodiment of it,
The fire that cannot be tamed.
They said,
Her words are too sharp,
Her presence is too much,
But she was not the monster they made of her...no.
She does not bow to the chains of conformity,
Does not kneel before the idols of oppression.
She is not the savior you imagine,
She is the storm, the fury that clears the path for the voiceless,
the persecuted, and the discarded.
Her arms are wide, a shelter for the abused,
a refuge for those whose cries have gone unheard.
She listens to their pain holding it like a sacred flame,
and burns away the lies that have held them captive for so long.
Validating those who need it most, as they have been
made a villain by those who have victimized.
She is not the demon you fear.
She is not the reckoning you cannot escape.
She is the mother of those who have no voice,
The fierce protector of those who are torn
by those who hide their violence.
She is the lover of those who have been forgotten,
the sanctuary for hearts broken by cruel intentions,
giving strength to the wounded,
and love to the abandoned.
But nevertheless she will stand,
Not as the hero they thought, or the villain they made
But as the one who they never saw coming,
Wearing badges of battles fought
and won without their permission.
They called her blasphemous
They spit her name like venom,
They deemed her a sin they could not sanctify.
They call her the unholy hymn,
But she holds the answers to the questions
they dare not let anyone ask.
So she dances in the fire they lit beneath her,
Spinning the embers into truths forged from their lies,
Turning ashes into fertile soil for growth,
Turning hate into nourishment so that others can live.
So if she is a demon, if she is a witch,
She is their creation, their reflection.
They conjured her with lies, guilt and shame.
She will stand, horns raised, a mirror to their hypocrisy.
Of the truth they cannot bury, although they have tried.
She is the child who will not kneel,
She is the woman who will not be silenced,
She is the voice they wished to drown.
She is every "no"that shatters their illusion of control,
She is every "yes" that claims stolen freedom.
She is the rebellion tearing the veil of false pretense.
And when she was named heretic,
And when she was branded forsaken,
Remember:
She was forged by her own will
after their hands crushed her life.
Because his life was the truth,
They did not want to admit.
And the truth of the story,
They did not want her to tell.
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