I am a poetess.
Soft-spoken, quiet, almost invisible in your noise.
I write in free verse, in monologues, in pages you’ll never touch.
I craft my words like delicate knives—silent, sharp, precise.
I never talk back, never argue, never explain.

I am tired.
Tired of proving myself.
Tired of showing why my point of view matters.
Tired of bending over backwards for people who only want to see me small.
If they think what they think about me makes them happy… let them.

Let them brag. Let them talk.
When they brag about themselves, no one listens.
But when they talk **** behind my back,
Oh… have you seen my back?

You dissing me from behind?
Oops. That back of mine—toned, strong, unyielding.
Sculpted with effort you can’t begin to imagine.
Sides defined where yours have none.
Strength you try to belittle, yet cannot replicate.

I do not engage.
I do not lower myself to your level.
I let the ink of my pen do what my voice will not.
I let silence speak louder than your chaos.
I let words linger in the corners where you cannot reach them.

You imagine me frail.
You imagine me weak.
You imagine that your whispers can harm me.
But my softness is armor.
My quiet is a weapon.

I watch.
I observe.
I remember everything without saying a word.
Every slight, every insult, every misguided attempt to define me.
I record it in verse. I store it in prose. I weave it into monologues no one dares hear aloud.

I am a poetess.
I write.
I create.
I exist in the spaces where your noise cannot touch me.
And when you look for weakness, you find strength.

Yes, I am quiet.
Yes, I am soft-spoken.
But do not mistake softness for surrender.
Do not mistake silence for permission.
Do not mistake a poetess for someone you can break.

I am poetry in motion.
I am prose in reflection.
I am a monologue that no one can interrupt.
And while you talk behind my back,
I am building empires in the quiet.