They called her a monster,

but before that, she was a priestess.

Honored. Sacred.

Not for her body,

but for the power pulsing quietly in her presence.

Until a god—no,

a man cloaked in godhood—

decided she was his to take.

And the goddess she served

didn’t shield her,

didn’t save her—

she turned her into stone instead.

As if her pain

was too much to witness.

How familiar.

How often have I felt

the stone creeping up my spine—

for being beautiful,

for being bright,

for being bold enough to speak,

to shine

in rooms that wanted me silent, small, and smiling.

Like Medusa,

I was blamed for what I endured.

The violation,

the silence,

the exile.

They said she must have asked for it,

or worse, deserved it.

Because some men don’t like women

who make them feel small.

But here’s what they forget:

Even severed,

her head held power.

Even silenced,

she still turned men to stone.

Even cursed,

she gave birth to Pegasus—

something divine still rose from her wound.

So maybe I am not here to be palatable.

Maybe I am here to terrify the right people.

Maybe, like her,

I am not a warning—

but a reckoning.