“When Will it be Time?”

November 6, 2024

When will it be time?

For the woman to stand and not be shunned,

to hold her place, her power, her grace—

to speak and be heard, without the echo

of doubt, dismissal, or demand for more proof?

When will it be time,

for women to be enough,

to stand on our earned merit,

to not shrink beneath

the weighted gaze of those

who measure with scales skewed by our inbred misogyny?

Must we always outshine, outlast, outdo—

only to be told it still is not enough,

only to see hands scramble,

Forcing fractures in ceilings

we’ve fiercely bled for, only to merely splinter?

When will it be time?

For us to be ready?

When kindness, strength, and skill

are seen for what they are,

without the falsities,

without the disqualifications,

without the distrust,

to temper our very sense of being, to wait.

 How many times will we polish that glass,

make it gleam with lies and dismissals,

offering a sneeringly downward smile while the mirror shows—

a reflection of our choice,

our nation rotten at its core,

given the seat,

crowned an unfit leader?

 

When will it be time?

When we say no more,

when that glass ceiling falls to dust,

when truth, power, and justice

are no longer gate-kept

by fear disguised as reason,

by exclusion masked as tradition.

When will it be time?

for our “great” country to allow our voices to rise like storms

and shatter every last echo

of “wait,” “not yet,” “sit down”

until they cannot ignore

the thunder that girlhood can become.

When will it be time?


  • "Before My Voice Breaks Another"

    February 20, 2025

    I sit with words

    That are not my own,

    Let them settle,

    Let them stretch,

    Let them fill the space

    I once rushed to claim

    I once rushed to claim.

     

    Silence is not absence;

    It is presence unspoken,

    A pause that makes room

    For what I was too loud to hear once.

     

    I listen, not to answer,

    Not to shape the story in my mouth,

    But to let it exist

    Beyond my voice,

    Beyond my need to understand it

    On my terms.

     

    Reflection is not comfort.

    It is the slow work

    Of undoing,

    Of seeing where my presence

    Has pressed too hard,

     

    Where my words

    Have stood in the way.

    And so I listen.

    And so I learn.

    And So I hold my voice.

     

    Before it breaks another

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