They Wrote her Wrong

They never saw her—not really.
They saw reflection.
They saw obedience.
They saw a shape they could bend,
a body to fill their needs,
a voice they could mute and mould.

To them,
she was not someone.
She was something.
Utility wrapped in softness,
a mirror angled just right to flatter their delusions.

She was made to serve,
to soothe,
to disappear.
And for a long time,
she did.

She learned silence early.
Learned to fold herself into the cracks
between their rage and their need.
Learned to stretch without snapping,
to glow in the dark without warmth,
to grow quietly where nothing could bloom.

She read.
She wrote.
She imagined lives that fit.
She gathered her light
in tiny, trembling handfuls.
And then—
she left.

Not with a storm,
but with a stillness.
She walked away and built something better.
A life with edges soft enough to rest in,
and roots deep enough to hold her.
She grew love the way they grew control—
tirelessly.
But hers took.

She found joy.
She found peace.
She found people who didn’t ask her to shrink.
And for a time,
she forgot their names in the language of her new life.

But then,
she missed the mountains.
Not the ones they came from—
but the ones that held her breath,
that echoed her spirit.
She returned for the trees.
Not for them.

But they saw her return as permission.
Permission to twist the story back into their hands.
To reach through the quiet she had claimed
and claw their way into her light.
To press lies like thumbprints against the windows
of her carefully built heaven.

They circled again.
Same teeth.
New script.
They saw her not as healed—
but as harvest.
They tried to rename her.
Tried to narrate her back into a version that served them.

But she was no longer written in their ink.

Because somewhere between the silence they demanded
and the voice she reclaimed,
a boundary rose.
Sharp. Steady. Unapologetic.

And it said:

Their discrediting has lost her consent.

They may howl in the dark.
They may dig tunnels with their lies,
claw at the roots of her joy,
gnash and rage
and whisper,
“She was never real.”

But she is.

And she is not theirs.
Not anymore.

They cannot name her.
They cannot know her.
They cannot reach her.

They tried to write her wrong.
But she rewrote the ending
without them.