Amelia James Poetry

i was soft once.
sacred, even.
they never talk about that.
only the part
where i turned to stone.

no one asks
what it does to a body
to be touched without asking—
then cursed
for being touched at all.

they said it was punishment.
but it felt like aftermath.
like the gods didn’t know
what else to do with me,
so they made me dangerous
and called it mercy.

the snakes weren’t mine.
they came after.
they came when everything else left—
when even my own name
stopped sounding like safety.

i didn’t want revenge.
i wanted to be untouched.
unseen.
un-ruined.

but girls like me
don’t get to go back.
we get turned into myths
and monsters
and cautionary tales.

they say i was wicked
for what grew out of grief.
but tell me—
how else was i supposed to live
in a world
that only protects
what it hasn’t broken yet?

they always talk about
the girl with the curse—
but not the one
who prayed with bare feet
and didn’t flinch
before she learned she had to.

they didn’t see
what it cost me
to survive.

they called it a curse.
i called it the only armor
that showed up
when no one else did.

my rage was not born
from cruelty.
it was carved
from disbelief.

do you know what it’s like
to be punished
for surviving?

to have your voice
rewritten
until the only thing
they remember
is your silence
turned deadly?

they called me monster.
they still do.

but monsters don’t weep
in doorways.
monsters don’t flinch
when names come like knives.

monsters don’t pray
to go back
to the moment
before.

before the stone.
before the silence.
before the knowing.

i know now.
i know too much.

and i can’t undo the gaze
they forced into me.

but i can meet your eyes now.
and i won’t look away.

because the girl they broke
was not the girl
they buried.

she’s the one who rose
with venom in her hair
and justice in her bones.

-Amelia James