He Called It A Gift

They’ll say I wanted it—

the promise, the prophecy,

the shine of something sacred

But it wasn’t a gift.

It was a hand too heavy on my jaw,

a god mistaking silence for consent.

He said it was love,

the way he offered me the vision,

called me chosen.

I learned then how divinity feels—

like being lit from within

and told to smile through the burning.

When I said no,

he rewrote the story.

Made me the warning, the cautionary tale,

the girl who spoke too much

and wasn’t believed.

They call it madness now,

but I remember the look in his eyes—

the fear of a woman who sees clearly.

So I carry what he couldn’t bear:

the knowing, the ruin, the truth that grins

beneath all their pretty lies.

Let them call it a curse.

I’ve learned to live in the light of it.