Medusa Knows

Warning! This poem is about sexual assault. It might be triggering to some readers! Read tags!

Medusa Knows

The weight of wanting to scream,
but the voice,
a fragile bird,
trapped in a cage of bone.

She knows what it is to feel the grip,
to clutch at fears that seep like shadows,
to stand on the thin line of fury
and sorrow intertwined,
as fingers clench and rage ignites
that haunting, hollowed scream
lost in the echo of a darkened room.

Medusa knows

the tremor
that follows the storm,
the aftershock
in the marrow,
long after the hands
have left their imprint,
invisible to the world,
branded on the soul.

She knows the garden of self,
once vibrant,
now choked with weeds of shame,
each tender bloom
bruised, broken.

She knows the flicker of recognition
in the mirror,
a stranger staring back,
eyes wide with a fear
that never sleeps.

The body, a map
of unspoken battles,
each scar a silent testament
to the war waged within.

Medusa knows

the hollow ache
of absence,
the missing piece of oneself
stolen, scattered,
leaving a void
that echoes with his laughter,
his taunts,
his power.

She knows the crushing weight
of secrets kept,
the lies whispered
to protect him,
to protect the fragile facade
of normalcy.

Medusa, an image of wrath,
but deeper than scales and slithering snake,
she knows the stories not written in ink,
the ones carved deep in the soul,
where every gaze becomes a dagger,
and each passing moment an ache,
like a reflection in the glass
that shatters at a spoken word.

The truth writhes within her,
for there, beneath the layers,
lies a heart made of delicate glass,
fragile, yet iridescent,
a tapestry woven with threads of pain,
stringed together by trust betrayed,
by hands that moved like thief in night,
pulling warmth from flesh and spirit,
leaving only echoes echoing back
in a mind that questions its worth.

She knows the weight of silence,
the suffocation of holding still,
the strength it takes to stand unmoved,
while storms howl through the soul.
A glance, a gesture, too close, too near,
and she turns to stone,
a monument to invincible fear,
to a battle unacknowledged,
a fight that rages on the inside.

These serpents twist not just in fury,
but in the whispers of long-lost dreams,
of moments where laughter danced free,
where innocence once held the hour.
Each coil represents a moment,
each hissing breath a sigh,
as the weight of memory does not fade,
but burdens the shoulders of giants,
those who cannot forget,
who walk with their ghosts,
and build walls of armor
around hearts besieged.

Yet in the darkness, hope glimmers,
a fragile spark beneath the stone,
for Medusa knows resilience,
knows the way to bend without breaking,
to rise from the ashes of despair,
to weave new tales from strands of sorrow,
to turn pain into purpose
and trust into strength.

With every unwinding snake,
there's a glimmer of love,
a chance for healing,
a promise to find truth beneath the skin
and break free from the chains of shame,
headed toward a horizon,
where the light meets her eyes,
where the world falls silent,
and she stands
not just a figure of myth,
but a beacon of survival,
a reminder that even in the dark,
there's a flicker,
an ember that can ignite the heart
and transform scars into stories,
as Medusa smiles.

Author's Note

Warning! This poem is about sexual assault. It might be triggering to some readers! And I used the fact that Sexual Assault survivors get Medusa as a tattoo to represent that to write this poem. I hope you like it!

If you need to report a sexual assault, Here is the National Sexual Assault Hotline:
1-800-656-4673