The world will burn

and maybe then they’ll listen.

They carved gods from stone

but gave her no name—

just whore, witch, wife.

She birthed empires in blood and silence,

then was stoned for bleeding.

In Greece, she was property.

In Rome, a prize.

In Salem, firewood.

In factories, replaceable.

In wars, collateral.

She marched.

She bled for the vote.

She swallowed her rage in offices,

in kitchens,

in courtrooms,

in beds.

Now—

she’s told she’s equal

while she’s followed home with keys between her fingers.

While her “no” is debated.

While her body is still a battleground

legislated by men who will never carry life

or fear losing it just for saying no.

She’s tired of being polite.

She doesn’t want a seat—

she wants the table overturned,

the whole house lit up.

She is the scream,

the storm,

the spark.

The world will burn.