I Am Your Witness

Fragment 391

From the Notebooks of The Poet

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They told me not ta feel.

To stay quiet.

Stay pleasing.

But there's nothing quiet about survival.

And I'm not someone who will turn away from the filth.

If you come to me with your story, your rape, your addiction, your shame—

I will not look away.

If your hands are stained with blood or trembling in withdrawal,

if you're dripping with drool, grief, or fury,

if you don't yet know that you deserve to be seen—

I will still see you. Because I am you.

And I refuse to be another ghost in your life who flinched when you were real.

I've walked through my own infernos.

Swallowed razors in the shape of expectations.

I've split my soul to make it through days where my body no longer belonged to me.

I've had lovers, strangers, and systems claim pieces of me in exchange for protection.

But even then—

even in the burning—

I knew this:

I am here to feel.

They call it soft. They call it feminine. They call it weak.

But here, in the underbelly of Thar-Korr,

truth has calloused hands and a mouth full of ash.

Truth spits.

Truth breaks locks.

Truth is a frequency pulsing in the blood.

Most people I've met have forgotten their truth.

They've been fed fragments, so they chase fragments.

But I let truth show up in its fullness—

even when it looks like rage. Because my truth has teeth.

It remembers all the times I was silenced.

All the times I was told to stay small, conform, disappear.

So let this be known:

I will not bury my truth to make the world comfortable.

I will not abandon my rage to make others feel safe.

And I will not twist my heart into a shape that fits a broken mold.

I am the witness.

The cracked mirror you can finally see yourself in.

And if no one else will hold your storm — I will.

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