Member-only story
I Do Not Speak Her Name
Where softness turns
Told through the voice of a harsh ruler who once shaped the world through decree and domination, this poem reveals how even the most merciless sovereigns are not beyond reach when haunted by what they tried to silence.
I ruled with a hand of iron lace,
threaded through with ash and decree.
Mercy was a meadow I burned young.
It never grew back.
They called me sovereign,
but only in the hollow way
subjects speak when their breath is taxed.
Her name —
I no longer speak it.
Names are tender.
I am not tender.
She was a whisper once,
a glimmer pressed in gold,
soft as threads spun from twilight.
But soft things turn.
And when crushed,
they coil —
knot themselves into curses
that linger,
waiting.
I wronged her.
Or so she believes,
and belief is the marrow of vengeance.
