They took my home
and called it strategy.
They took my lover
and called it necessary.
They took cities stone by stone,
names by names,
children by the handful—
and asked why I would not kneel.
I learned the weight of a blade
because grief has mass.
I learned the language of fire
because silence kept lying to me.
Do not call me cruel.
Cruelty forgets.
I remembered.
If I am a weapon,
it is only because love survived
long enough
to teach me how to fight.