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Women have always had to apologize or bend to their will. We were punished for their weak character. In doing so, we helped them keep us down like pitiful creatures they claimed us to be. When in truth, we were the dragons.
I had heard it all before, the melody of agony rising and falling in a chorus. The sniffles like the sound of a tambourine, the pounding of the bars like beating drums, the wails a horn, the quiet sobs of a guitar, while they sang their fears and denials in a melancholy song.
People considered “breaking” a sign of weakness. I disagreed. Bending meant you could be molded and shaped into something else. I may be full of dents, scars, and trauma, but whatever they did to me, they could not bend and form me into their idea. They turned me rigid. Titanium. I broke; I did not bend. I snapped; I did not bow. They did not twist and cast me into something different.
