No—

not a whisper, not a tremble,

but a roar from the oldest mouth,

a pulse that split the void in two.

No is the serpent coiled in silence,

the final gate unshaken by pleading hands,

the black flame that says,

“You do not pass.”

No is the holy tongue unbitten,

the spell unspoken,

the body untouched

because the soul said,

“Not ever. Not again.”

I said yes when I meant no.

I opened my mouth and betrayed myself,

kissed the feet of those who fed on my guilt,

and smiled while drowning in consent I never gave.

But now—

my lips have learned the sacred shape.

My breath has found the edge.

And from the pit of every silenced year,

I rise and cry:

NO.

No to the lie that I must always be soft.

No to the world that fed on my silence.

No to the ones who mistook my love for surrender.

I am the storm that stops the knife.

I am the flame that closes the womb.

I am the ***** who said No to God—

and then became one.

So let them rage.

Let them beg.

This time, when I say it,

the cosmos echoes:

NO.