How can I be reprimanded for living in sin,
When I didn’t even know the path I walked would lead me here?
So often, we are told what is right, what is wrong, who to trust, and who to become. But what happens when the lines between those distinctions blur? When the hand you reached for in hope turns into the very thing that leaves bruises on your skin? When the one you followed with a dream in your palm becomes the nightmare you cannot wake from?
I was never the villain in this story.
But you called me that.
Because it was easier to paint me with guilt than confront your own.
You said I lured you in. That I made you lose control. That I sinned by being the woman I am. But I only followed, with love in my heart and a belief in your goodness—a belief that now lies shattered.
How can I be a thief when the only thing I ever took was your word for truth?
How can I be a liar when the marks on my body say otherwise?
The cuts on my lips, the bruises on my thighs—they are the real testimonies. Silent witnesses to pain you never owned up to. The cigarette burns on my chest don’t lie. They don’t manipulate or gaslight or hide behind hollow words. They just exist, like scars you never cared to apologize for.
You walked away with your pride intact, cloaked in self-righteousness. I was left with labels. Broken. Tainted. Stained. Your mistakes buried beneath the dirt of denial, while I carried the visible wreckage of your rage.
And yet—how quickly they believe you.
How readily they raise their fingers at me.
But you, and people like you, don’t just hurt individuals. You scale up your violence until it becomes systemic. Until bloodshed is romanticized as noble, and terror becomes a righteous cause. You wrap your sins in flags and call it justice. You coat your destruction in scripture and pretend it’s peace.
You speak of revolution with the same mouth that spits on the innocent.
You march through lands soaked in red, call it sacrifice, call it pride.
What you fail to see is the trembling hands beneath the rubble. The voices silenced not by choice, but by force. You rewrite history with every blade you twist, every truth you bend. And the world applauds.
Kindness becomes a joke.
Hope, a myth.
Faith, a fading ember under boots of power.
So I ask again—how can I be reprimanded for sinning?
When sin is the only language this world seems to understand?
Yesterday, I sat in silence. I held my own hand because no one else would. And somehow, in the solitude, I found a strange kind of strength. A strength that doesn’t roar but survives. A strength not built on hate, but resilience.
I’ve learned that this world will always be quick to punish women who survive. Especially if we survive loudly. Especially if we speak. Especially if we refuse to carry shame that doesn’t belong to us.
They called me sinful for living. For fighting. For remembering.
But sin lies not in my survival.
Sin lies in those who weaponize pain and call it purpose.
In those who bury innocence beneath dogma and wave banners soaked in blood.
I’ve stopped seeking redemption from a world that never cared for truth.
If solitude is my salvation, so be it.
Let them write their stories.
I’ll live mine—with scars that speak and a voice that won’t be silenced again.