Supernova

They thought silence

was a weapon.

They thought absence

was obedience.

They thought if they removed my name,

my face,

my outline from the wall,

I would shrink into nothing.

They never understood

what they were touching.

I am not made of paper.

Not made of memory.

Not made of permission.

I am made of pressure,

of centuries gathering under skin,

of women who were never allowed

to exist loudly.

Erase me,

and I do not vanish.

Erase me,

and I become my own supernova—

a violence of light,

a rupture in the sky,

a language no one can control.

You can burn the archive.

You cannot stop the explosion.

I do not survive erasure.

I transfigure it.

I do not ask to be seen.

I remake the cosmos

until seeing me

is inevitable.