Splintered Crown
A poem
I wear the splintered crown
of every woman who bore this weight,
each thorn a law, a lie, a laugh
that cut too deep, that left scars
we’ve learned to carry like jewels.
The patriarchy, they say, is dead
but it lives in the marrow, in the bones
of every handshake, every hushed room
where decisions are made in whispers,
and our names are carved into the walls
without our consent.
I was taught to kneel, to shrink,
to carve my voice into silence,
to wear submission like a second skin,
but the skin itched, the skin burned,
and I ripped it off, tore it to shreds,
fed it to the fire of my growing rage,
my rage that is not quiet, not tame,
but wild, a beast untamed,
clawing at the walls of this cage
they built around us,
believing it would hold.
But we are not held,
we are the fire, the storm,
the splintered crown
that digs into the skulls of kings,
that whispers of rebellion,
of a reckoning long overdue.
I wear this crown,
not with pride, but with purpose,
a symbol of what will be torn down,
what will rise in its place —
a new world, without thorns,
without lies, where the laughter
is our own, and it echoes
through the halls of power
like a war cry,
like a promise.
This is not the end,
but the beginning of the end,
the first crack in the foundation,
the first spark of the fire
that will consume it all.
The splintered crown will fall,
and with it, every throne
built on our backs,
every lie we’ve been forced
to swallow whole.
I will see it fall,
and I will laugh,
not a laugh of bitterness,
but of triumph,
of victory,
of freedom finally won.
© Ani Eldritch, 2024.
