A Revolution Wrapped in a Lullaby
My words do not shout.
They don’t slam fists on tables
or burn banners in the street.
They hum.
They sing.
They fold truth into verses
like love notes tucked into backpacks
before a long, hard day.
This is not a whisper.
This is a weapon
with velvet edges.
This is a revolution
wrapped in a lullaby.
Don’t mistake the softness for surrender.
Don’t confuse my stillness
for silence.
Every stanza is a spark.
Every pause,
a pull of breath before the blow.
I do not scream.
But I speak.
And that is enough
to rattle the bones of systems
built on the backs
of girls who were told to be quiet.
My poems are lullabies
for the ones who weren’t sung to.
Battle cries in lowercase,
gentle only at first glance.
They cradle.
And they cut.
They do not need your permission.
They are firelight in the hands of women
who were never handed matches.
They are lullabies
for the ones who are finally waking up.
And you—
if you hear them,
if you feel them—
you already know:
This voice
is not here
to soothe you.
It’s here
to save you.