I walked into the room of memory—
where old men sit on the throne,
With eyes like contracts
and hands that barter
flesh for obedience,
magic for silence.
He asked a question,
but I did not answer.
His offer was laced with decay,
a language I no longer speak.
So I turned—
to the sink,
The altar of release,
and let it rise.
From my mouth
came the phlegm of generations—
thick with swallowed screams,
choked songs,
and untold stories
My grandmothers dared not voice.
It poured—
From my crown,
from my throat,
from the root of me that remembered
The girl who was told to hush
and the woman who forgot her roar.
I did not cry.
I did not pray.
I expelled.
And in that sacred purge,
I became my own sanctuary.
No longer a daughter of shame,
But a priestess of refusal.
No longer returning to those
who weigh worth in what they can take.
I did not go back.
I walked forward,
dripping with holy defiance.
And the ancestors danced.
For I did what they could not:
I spat out the silence—
and gave my voice back to the fire–
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