My mother came with me that night.
Her voice was soft,
but her fear was firm.
“Be careful what you say,” she said.
“You live among these people.
You work among them.
They might not understand.”
But I told her—
“I am not a coward.”
If I cannot speak what I have written,
then I do not deserve my own tongue.
If I must water down my truth
so others sleep soundly,
then let them call me cruel.
I told her—
“I am a radical,
but I am not cruel.”
They confuse the two.
They always have.
The obedient call truth a weapon.
They have been taught to fear fire,
because fire wakes the sleeping.
But I do not believe in silence.
I do not believe in making myself small
just to be let in.
Let them flinch.
Let them whisper.
Let them shift in their seats.
The world has never been changed
by the polite.
It has only ever turned
in the hands of those
who dare to name the thing
no one else will say.
So yes—
Call me radical.
I will wear the word like a robe.
It is stitched with ash,
and truth,
and every woman who ever said
“Enough.”
Disclaimer: For full context, please read “Faithful Fraud” from the Men I Survived series.
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