By Guillit A.
I am Wo-Man.
A name born of man—
But I refuse to be his shadow.
I refuse to shrink in a language that cages me.
I claim my throne.
Not because they gave it,
But because I made it.
I am the twist in their tongue,
The break in their mold.
For the wo-men, I rise.
For the sisters carrying centuries of woe,
For voices silenced in boardrooms and bedrooms,
For bodies bound by rules
That never belonged to us.
I am a strong Black woman—
Not by their definition,
But by my survival,
By the will that outlives oppression.
I fight.
For space that was stolen.
For power they hoarded.
For dignity engraved in scars.
I endure humiliation—
And turn it into revolution.
Every wound becomes a weapon.
Every fall becomes a foundation.
I am both queen and king.
Queen in my heart,
King to Nations.
Mother, mentor, soldier, guide—
A defender of people,
A driver of destiny.
I am afraid of nothing.
Mistakes do not break me.
They make me.
I pilot nations through storms.
I crush obstacles under wheels of will.
I am color-blind to hate,
And ruthless to fear.
A King to women.
Measured not by birth,
Not by muscles,
Not by their rules—
But by my will.
By the name I reclaimed:
Wo-Man.
This is not just who I am—
It is what I demand:
Space.
Respect.
Freedom.
Equality.
To every woman, wo-man, and wo-men rising—
Wear your crown.
Sharpen your voice.
Take your throne.
Because no one gives you power.
You take it.
No comments:
Post a Comment