Medusa (noun)
Sometimes the Greek myth gorgon monster, most of the time, I am—
Misunderstood. Unheard. A story twisted by trembling tongues.
They paint me a monster because it’s easier—easier than admitting what they did. Easier than facing the truth: I was not always this.
Once, I was soft—a girl with warmth in her hands and light in her eyes. But the world does not spare the soft. They touched without asking. Took without permission. And when I refused to break, they called me wicked.
I became what they feared. Not by choice—by survival.
Now, I wear my venom like a crown. I speak, and they call it defiance. I exist, and they call it danger.
But still, they watch. Still, they want. Still, they tremble beneath the weight of me.
I am the gaze that stops you mid-step. A warning wrapped in beauty. Venom in velvet.
I do not chase—I turn. I do not beg—I reign. I do not soften—I sharpen.
Once, my eyes turned from sweet to fierce, like an eagle. Once, my voice shifted from jolly to a roar, like a lion. Once, my personality changed from bubbly to gorgon—run for your life, boy, my snake hair will do the rest.
They whisper my name like a curse, but still, they look. Still, they want. Still, they fear.
I am the one they cannot hold, the storm they cannot quiet, the ruin they bring upon themselves.
I was not born to be kind. I was not made to be gentle. I am the consequence—the reckoning.
Stone-hearted? Perhaps. But only because too many tried to touch me with unworthy hands.
Misunderstood? Perhaps. Unheard? Not anymore.
I do not need to be saved. I do not need to be softened. I am the ending they never saw coming—and the beginning they cannot escape.
I am not your muse. I am your myth. Not the victim, but the legend. And when you dare meet my eyes—remember, I never blink first.
