The War with Others

They came not with swords

but with whispers.

Not to your face,

but to the space behind your back —

where your shadow sleeps

and your name is soft enough to bruise.

They didn’t fight you.

They told stories about you

until the room bent sideways.

Until trust became a cracked mirror

and even the light began to question you.

They wore smiles like medals

and called it justice.

And you?

You learned to bleed quietly.

To carry dignity like a fragile cup,

spilling nothing,

not even when they cheered your fall.

But here’s the truth

hidden in your trembling:

This was never about them.

It was about how much of you

you were still giving away

to be believed,

to be seen,

to be safe.

Let them go.

Even their absence

cannot reach

where your soul has risen.

You never asked them to choose.

Only to listen.

But they marched anyway,

carrying someone else’s flag —

waving it in your silence,

calling it truth.

They never knew your story.

Just the version

whispered to them

by a mouth

that feared your power.

Let them believe what they need.

Let them fight for a lie.

The truth

does not need defenders.

It only needs time.