The paper says the work is done,
The invoice claims the fix is clear,
But beneath the hood, the ruse has spun,
A truth they simply will not hear.
Forty-one days of mounting strain,
Of detailed lists and patient speech,
I map the fault, I point to pain,
Yet logic stays beyond their reach.
I speak in facts, I cite the sound,
The diagnostic, plain and true,
But shadows of a doubt are found
Because the voice they hear is you.
I am not loud, I am not wrong,
I know the pulse of metal gear,
But I have sung this weary song
To men who choose to lock their ear.
They treat the truth like idle noise,
Dismissing what I know to be,
As if my expertise employs
Some lesser, feminine decree.
Forty-one days of weight and wear,
Of fighting ghosts that stand between,
The broken part, the cold repair,
And simple justice, felt and seen.
It shouldn’t take a war to win
The quiet right to be believed,
To pierce the walls of stubborn skin,
And mend the trust that they deceived.