I sit in the corner of the library,
fingers tracing the yellowed edges of a book,
eyes scanning the lines of names and dates,
the accusations, the hysteria,
the girls burned for daring to exist.
Abigail, Susannah, Elizabeth—
their words and fates feel distant,
like a story from another century,
until I look up from the page
and see the hallways of my own school,
hear the whispers, the laughter,
the judgments sharper than any tongue I’ve read about.
I know what it’s like to be watched.
To have every movement cataloged,
every word twisted,
every thought questioned.
To be too loud, too proud, too smart—
and punished quietly, socially, invisibly,
like the world has learned
to hang girls without a rope.
In history, the trials were public,
a town gathered, a crowd pointing fingers,
a court deciding who was guilty.
Today, the court is subtle,
hidden in comments, in screenshots, in stares.
The jury is still the world,
and I still feel the noose tighten
with every whisper, every sideways glance.
I close the book and press my hand to my chest,
heart hammering.
The words of girls long dead
feel alive in the hallways of my school.
It is the same fear.
The same scrutiny.
The same punishment for daring to know,
to speak, to exist on my own terms.
I open my notebook instead,
writing fire into the margins,
drawing strength from the girls
who never bowed their heads,
who never apologized for living.
I am quiet, yes,
but I am not invisible.
And maybe, just maybe,
the lessons in the margins
will teach me how to stand
while the world hangs me still.
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 11:36 PM UTC
I sit in the corner of the library,
fingers tracing the yellowed edges of a book,
eyes scanning the lines of names and dates,
the accusations, the hysteria,
the girls burned for daring to exist.
Abigail, Susannah, Elizabeth—
their words and fates feel distant,
like a story from another century,
until I look up from the page
and see the hallways of my own school,
hear the whispers, the laughter,
the judgments sharper than any tongue I’ve read about.
I know what it’s like to be watched.
To have every movement cataloged,
every word twisted,
every thought questioned.
To be too loud, too proud, too smart—
and punished quietly, socially, invisibly,
like the world has learned
to hang girls without a rope.
In history, the trials were public,
a town gathered, a crowd pointing fingers,
a court deciding who was guilty.
Today, the court is subtle,
hidden in comments, in screenshots, in stares.
The jury is still the world,
and I still feel the noose tighten
with every whisper, every sideways glance.
I close the book and press my hand to my chest,
heart hammering.
The words of girls long dead
feel alive in the hallways of my school.
It is the same fear.
The same scrutiny.
The same punishment for daring to know,
to speak, to exist on my own terms.
I open my notebook instead,
writing fire into the margins,
drawing strength from the girls
who never bowed their heads,
who never apologized for living.
I am quiet, yes,
but I am not invisible.
And maybe, just maybe,
the lessons in the margins
will teach me how to stand
while the world hangs me still.