THREE THOUSAND MILES

 

THREE THOUSAND MILES

Your pointed strikes, precise and sharp,
Fail to grasp the wound they carve.
Hurt people, yes, hurt others still—
But no license grants the thrill
Of harassment veiled as righteous might,
Performed for crowds to feed your light. Not anger, not some fleeting trigger,
But clarity cuts through your figure.
Your narcissism, loud, eight miles wide,
Can’t mask the truth I’ve learned to bide.
At 48, I’m grown, not swayed,
No need for mothers who degrade. Therapy’s work has built me strong,
Fostering peace where I belong.
Inclusion’s my aim, not your control,
No space for games that scar the soul.
The talk’s the point—not me, not you—
Yet you demand, mock, and construe. Three thousand miles I’ve crossed to flee
A mother’s blade, her scrutiny.
Truth-teller’s role, I’ve borne the cost,
No longer bound by what I’ve lost.
I ask, I urge, don’t twist the frame—
Your need to dominate’s to blame.
No grievances aired to win this fight,
Just space to speak, to hold what’s right.