Carving Out the Leech

Boiling blood paces the halls of injustice.

Justice—late, trembling—cannot dawdle forever.

How did you, of all people, climb to the role of vice president?

With blame as your ladder, shame as your rope, and jokes as your smoke screen.

I can’t shake the jolt.

The shock clings to my spine like frost.

Corruption scales a rope so thin it should’ve snapped—

but it flexes false biceps,

smiling all the way to the top.

I crave a megaphone. I crave a crowd.

To pull our core values back from the drain—

the very ones a plunger tried and failed to rescue.

A rush of fury,

a crackle of purpose surges in my chest.

So I give my final, prophetic speech.

And then—

I carve off the leech that’s fed on my dignity,

that’s drained my light drop by drop.

But hear this:

We are not done.

We will rise—

through the dark,

through the bruising blows of change

that try to silence us each day.

We remember who we are.

And we will not be severed.