The Sharp tongue

Some voices break through the quiet, not asking for space but taking it. They carry the weight of what they’ve survived, tempered into strength, moving with force and purpose. They are storms that shape their own path, fire that burns without apology, and light that cannot be ignored.

My Time:

I am not emerging from ashes, I am emerging from decisions from the moment I stopped asking what I was allowed to be.

I did not escape the past

I outgrew it.

There is no cage in my voice now only weather,

only thunder choosing its direction.

I do not carry history like a wound

I carry it like a crown forged from every season

I refused to shrink in.

This is not revenge.

This is arrival.

I wake up speaking in verbs;

claiming, building, becoming,

commanding my own nervous system like a wild horse that finally knows its name, no-one grants me power.

I generate it

the way stars do – by existing at full heat.

This is not their era.

This is not a reaction.

This is not a scar.

This is my time.

– Tabitha M.