On the Fourteenth Day

 

I showed up clean, with truth in hand,

To a place that called itself lawful land.

Since twenty-seventeen I gave my days,

To help the caged, the silenced, the strays.

I wore my badge, I knew my role—

A case manager with a steady soul.

I did not whisper, I did not kneel,

When I saw a woman forge and steal.

The signatures of those detained,

Signed by a fraud, dignity drained.

I brought it forth, I named the wrong,

And that’s when the strings began to pull strong.

My manager, a mask of pride—

Said “You overstep,” then stepped aside.

No thank yous, no truth upheld—

Only silence where justice once dwelled.

On the fourteenth day of February’s hold,

I was cast out in the morning cold.

No warning bell, no chance to fight—

Just locked out of my own birthright.

They even called ahead, it seems,

To crush the second job of dreams.

An interview that vanished thin—

Sabotaged with a coward’s grin.

For days I screamed in quiet halls,

While anger climbed my inner walls.

I cursed, I cried, I tried to sleep—

But snakes like them, they slither deep.

Now here I stand with ash and flame,

I have not bowed, I bear no shame.

Their lies may feed their thrones awhile,

But fate remembers every file.

So let this ink, this verse, this fire—

Be my blade, my breath, my ire.

The wheel turns slow, but turns it must—

And all foul things return to dust.

You wronged the wrong witch on that day—

And karma keeps a debt to pay.

For every wound you left in me,

Will echo in your legacy.