I feel it in my bonesâ
like marrow splitting under pressure.
My skin burns hot, flushed with warning.
My hands tremble, not with fearâ
but anticipation.
My core begins to vibrate,
a fault line waking beneath flesh.
A quiet before collapse.
This anger.
This rage.
This fireâ
it does not ask.
It takes.
All-consuming.
Holy in its ruin.
Unleashing the beast
I kept starved in chains.
She risesâ
not born, but summoned.
Not gentle, but necessary.
Justice sharpened into bone and teeth.
The straighter she stands,
the more the world bends away.
Power pooling in her spine
like a storm learning its name.
Rage has opened the cage.
And I am no longer the keeper.
The tremors worsenâ
small earthquakes under skin,
fracturing what remains of restraint.
She is still growing.
Still becoming catastrophe.
And when she strikes,
it is not chaosâ
it is correction.
Each impact lands like verdict:
jaw cracked under truth,
egos splintering like glass under heel,
silence forced down the throats of men
who mistook dominance for divinity.
She smiles while it happens.
Not joyâ
recognition.
As if she remembers every hand
that ever tried to shrink her,
every voice that called her less
and meant it as law.
A succubus of reckoning,
but she does not consume innocenceâ
she devours entitlement.
She feeds on the rot of power abused,
on systems built to silence,
on hands that took without asking
and called it fate.
Relentless.
Immovable.
Unforgiving.
She drags them downâ
not into hell,
but into truth.
She stands guard over the voiceless,
a blade between them and history.
A shield made of fury.
Fierce enough to end cycles.
Brutal enough to break inheritance.
No apology offered.
No softness required.
No second glance spared
for those who built their world on harm.
It is woman remembering her own strength
and refusing to be small again.
Visceral.
Final.
Uncontainable.