I Hope You Write A Slam Poem About Me

I hope you write a poem about me and every line drips with guilt you’re too cowardly to name.
I hope the pen slips.
I hope it bleeds.
I hope you read it out loud and realize too late how stupid you sound trying to humanize someone you tried to erase.

I hope it sucks.
I hope it’s beige and clumsy and reeks of your safe little office language.
I hope it tries to be profound and just ends up proving you never understood the plot.

I hope your poem calls me “angry” because you can’t say “accurate.”
I hope you say I was “too intense” because “refused to be manipulated” has too many syllables.

You can’t write about me.
You don’t get to.
You flinched when I was honest.
You hid behind procedure.
You watched me burn and asked me to smile about it.

You called it leadership but you just liked the sound of your own email signature.
You weaponized calmness and called it accountability.
You let them gut me and clapped from the back row like a good little therapist.

You had a voice.
You chose quiet.
Your neutrality was complicity dressed in beige.

Don’t ever say you “didn’t know.”
Your name promised thunder but all you delivered was compliance.
And you were never on my side.
Just in the way.

You wanted to be a ghost but still wanted to be adored.
You wanted me to burn quietly so you could watch without guilt.
You gave me silence and expected ashes in return.

I hope you try to write a little poem.
I hope it makes you feel safe.
I hope your metaphors cower just like you did when it mattered.

Spell my name right.
Frame it.
Read it to your friends.
Tell them how brave you were to survive the big, bad version of me that wouldn’t shut up and sit still.

But understand this:
Whatever you write, it will always be fiction.
Because if you had really known me, you wouldn’t have “survived” me.

I hope your poem wins an award for politeness and hangs in a hallway no one walks down.
Because that’s what you deserve: a monument to the silence you mistook for survival.