Amelia James Poetry

They dragged my name through the kindling,

called it healing.

Said I was the storm

while they lit the fuse behind their backs

and sang hymns over the explosion.

They anointed my grief with mockery,

called me bitter while drinking from the cup they poisoned,

and told me to turn the other cheek

as they stoned me with words

behind digital altars.

But I learned from prophets and wilderness women—

God meets you in the fire.

And I do not bow in flames.

Let them see what they created.

Let them weep at the altar they built from my bones.

I was never your scapegoat.

I was the sacrifice.

But now the veil has torn

and I rise in holy wrath.

You want to call me names?

Go ahead.

Witch.

Bitch.

Burden.

Say it loud.

Say it louder.

Because the girl you tried to silence

is wearing the blaze like a ballgown.

She walks with scorched earth in her wake.

She speaks in embers and echo—

a voice crying out in the wilderness

you pretended didn’t exist.

I am not your redemption arc.

I am not your quiet lesson.

I am what remains

when false gods fall.

I wear fire like a crown

-Amelia James