And If You Are Still Silent

To the girl still carrying it—

Don’t fall for a smile.
It may be hiding teeth.
Don’t fall for a flower.
There may be a blade beneath the stem.

Don’t fall for a good name,
for a clean shirt,
for a man who prays.

Saints bleed women, too.

And above all—
do not fall for potential.
You are not a sanctuary
for half-built men.

If you have suffered—
write.

Write until your hands shake.
Write until your ribs ache.
Write until the ghost has nowhere left to hide.

And then—
when you are ready—
recite.

Not in a bedroom.
Not in a corner.
Not to just one friend
who already knows your pain.

Go back to the place that made you feel small.
The hallway.
The sanctuary.
The family dinner.
The shrine.
The temple.

Stand where your voice once collapsed—
and raise it.

Recite it in your mother tongue.
Recite it in the room that once swallowed you.
Recite it until silence has no power left.

You will cry.
You may tremble.
But you will not collapse.

Because once the words leave your mouth—
once they echo off the very walls that once held your shame—
you will no longer carry his sin in your throat.

You will not bow.
You will not bleed silently.

You will speak.
You will burn.
You will rise.