He called her a ****-tease.
The word fell heavy, sharp as stones
breaking a bird’s flight mid-air.
She stood still. Her spirit fled—
to the quiet fields of her elders,
where flowers opened their mouths
only to name themselves.
The dress,
its soft rebellion,
became his battlefield.
"*****," he spat, each letter
a cracked drumbeat
splintering the silence between them.
Outside, dusk folded its hands,
a god turning away
from the sound of a woman
breaking.
When his palm
found her cheek,
the stars held their breath.
The earth bent at the waist.
His hands—desperate shadows
on her throat—learned quickly
what could not be held.
She walked barefoot
into the ancestral fields,
where the soil hummed
with the weight of her leaving.
Women waited there,
their grief braided with light.
They opened their mouths
and her name rose,
whole as a hymn.