Every woman before me left a bruise, a plea, a warning, a prayer—
a helpless cry when in despair.
Their voices echo,
teaching me to smile through pain,
to stitch my wounds with grace.
They hand me the quiet
like something sacred,
tucked beneath golden lace, whispering—
be gentle, be kind, be small,
but never too loud, never too free, never too happy.
But I—
I refuse to be their echo.
I will be the voice
that wears their wounds and silence
as my armor.
I’ll be the freedom they never dared to dream of.
The heirloom ends with me.
- REBELLIOUS SOUL.