Warriors are Grown

They battle for a space beneath the sun,
faces pointed to the sky,
defiance blossoming on the tips of tongues.
 
Warriors are grown,
beaten into the earth and moulded
with fingers skilled in the art of cruelty.
 
Terror is braided into the skin of girls
who aren’t allowed to feel afraid,
voices held like glass in the pits of their throats.
 
Rage is rubbed into the eyes of women
who eat fear and loom fiercely
over those who touch without asking.
 
Their voices become a storm that conquers silence,
a clap of thunder that cracks
the fist of subjugation.
 
They refuse to sit pretty,
be quiet,
stay down on the ground.
 
Rising from the bruises of captivity,
a single word of protest hums through the earth,
shakes the rubble from the mountain tops.
 
NO.