My only crime was to have been born a woman.
a crime with no trial, no verdict, just sentence.
The world does not break us all at once;
it whittles, peels, pares us down
until we fit the hollow it has carved.

They say we are too much.
Too loud, too soft, too sharp, too small.
A contradiction they built,
then condemned for its shape.

We fold ourselves into corners,
tuck our rage beneath our tongues,
wrap our worth in apologies
and call it survival.
That is not living— it is simply existing.

But we are not ghosts.
Not echoes of something lesser.
We are steel spun fine,
fire woven into silk—
soft does not mean breakable.

We are here.
We have always been here.

And we are not leaving quietly.

Years ago I knew a girl.
She was small, and timid— and believed cleverness and friendship would solve everything.
She believed that good would prevail bad— because that’s how the fairytales always went.
There was always some virtuous ending.
Some righteous belief.
Lately, it doesn’t seem so.
Lately, I’m noticing that it was all wishful thinking.
Good will not always prevail.
Now is not the time to relegate to oblivion— or to let one’s mind wonder.
Violence is never stomped down with peace.
Now is the time to listen— to stand up, and let your voice be heard.
A message I wish the world to hear.

The grass is brown, and the skies are dark.
The wind is crisp and icy; the people are frowning.
That house is on fire, and the fire department is nowhere near.
The pages are burning, and we’re forgetting history.
Lies are believable when they have pretty lips—but the teeth are sharp, and the tongue is rotting.
The paint is peeling, and the floor is falling beneath us.
Yet everyone has filters applied to their realities—versions in which they tell themselves everything is fine.
To ignore everything will make it okay.
And I wonder—when the last filter fades, will they still believe it?

"Anywhere but here," I whisper as I lean over the railing. "Anywhere but here," I repeat like a prayer, a tuneful hymn. Maybe the hymn is the icy wind whipping against my face—whispering words greater than I can believe. The salty tears freeze as they plummet, shattering into pieces—my heart among them.
Down, down, down.
"Anywhere but here." The sentence plagues my mind, twisting and contorting. I turn it over and over in my head as I consider my chances: certain death or major injuries? To live or not to live—why must I ponder such an unjust question?
Why is it even a consideration?

The world is cruel, but I?

I am far crueler.

I wonder who sewed my clothes,
who made my shoes, who carved these walls that surround me—
carved my face, the sharp planes and the soft ones.
Who made me fierce, yet left me with a bleeding heart.
Who decided I was to be anything at all— and why it chose to shape the world as such.
Why this universe is one I am forced to grace—and taint.
One that, perhaps, taints me in return.
How these walls I call my skull are truly me,
and not some elaborate illusion.
I am but a piece of meat, a floating brain bumping around in a soup of blood, muscles, and bones.

What even am I?
And who are you?