He calls it ***—a fleeting game,
A fire to feed, a hunger to claim.
A touch, a thrill, a moment to take—
Never mind the hearts that break.

She calls it ****—a stolen breath,
A shadow that lingers, a living death.
No warmth, no want, just tears that sting—
A cage of silence, a broken wing.

He says, “I wanted, so I took,”
Blind to the tremble, the hollow look.
She says, “I begged, I cried, I fought,”
But her pain is the part the world forgot.

Two words—worlds apart—
One with power, one with a shattered heart.
But truth does not bend to a careless name—
Forced is forced. The ache stays the same.

So call it ***—if consent is free,
If every “yes” flows willingly.
But when power steals and bodies break,
Let’s call it what it is—no mistake.

Not ***. Not love. Only pain.
A wound that words cannot explain.

There was once I thought
A mess like this
Could never be cleaned with a broom—
That the scars left behind
Were stains too deep
For any hand to undo.

But I was wrong.

Justice does not live
In marble halls alone,
Nor wear the weight of a judge’s tone.
It rises—unyielding—
In the hands that hold,
In voices that speak
When the world grows cold.

Not only in verdicts,
Not only in laws—
But in the strength of women
Who fight for a cause.

When one of us falls,
The others will stand—
Lifting her spirit
With a steady hand.

We reclaim our power
In the truths we share,
In every act of love,
In how we care.

Justice is not just won in a fight—
It blooms in the dark
When we turn on the light.

So, no broom may sweep
What’s broken away—
But together, we rise,
Stronger each day.