Content Note:
This poem contains vivid depictions of trauma, including sexual assault, child abuse, domestic violence, human trafficking, religious abuse, medical abuse, and graphic descriptions of vigilante justice. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please take care while reading.

I stand before him, sharpening knives—
Each blade sings a lullaby in steel,
Echoing screams not yet spilled.
He lays strapped to the table,
His wrists worn raw from resistance.
He called it “just a misunderstanding.”
Said she “asked for it,”
Her dress, her smile, her drink a signal.
Now I signal back—with silence and a scalpel,
Etching apologies he’ll never mean
Into the flesh of his trembling face.
I carve out the smirk he wore in court
When she cried behind closed eyes.
His voice breaks as her memory blooms in red.
I whisper, “Do you feel misunderstood now?”

The preacher follows,
Still mouthing verses between ragged sobs.
He who touched in the name of grace,
Laid hands on innocence and baptized it in shame.
Told her body was a temple—
One he visited in the dark.
Now I anoint him in holy flame.
Trace crucifixes in gasoline,
Sear scripture into his chest,
Each burn a passage he twisted.
Let the angels turn their eyes away,
Let the heavens choke on his pleas.
Your God didn’t stop you.
He won’t stop me.

Third comes the lover.
Gaslight king, puppetmaster,
The alchemist of self-doubt.
He turned “I love you” into a leash,
Told her the bruises were dreams,
That her panic was drama,
That she broke things—when it was always him.
I give him a mirror and a mask made of glass,
Slice truth across his tongue,
So he chokes every time he tries to lie.
He begs, “I didn’t hit her.”
I say nothing.
She didn’t need bruises to bleed.

She walks in next—
The friend who laughed when it happened.
She passed the drink.
Watched her stumble.
Left her in a room full of wolves.
Said it was “just one night.”
One night that swallowed decades.
Now she’s gagged with the silence she gave,
Each tooth yanked for every “I didn’t see.”
I let the drip of guilt echo in the basin,
So slow, it becomes a scream.
She cries, not for her—but for herself.
Typical.

And then the uncle.
No introduction needed.
He knows why he’s here.
His eyes scan the room for exits—
Funny, how he gave her none.
He said it was “just a game,”
A “secret” they would keep.
Now I tattoo every secret on his skin
With needles tipped in venom.
Every thrust of pain is a childhood reclaimed.
I bind his hands with tiny shoes,
And break his bones to the rhythm
Of nursery rhymes.

Sixth was a doctor,
A healer by name, butcher by act.
He diagnosed weakness in rebellion,
“Fixed” what wasn’t broken—
Lobotomized dissent, shocked grief into silence.
His clipboard weighed more than souls.
Now I strap him to the same bed
He used like a throne.
Inject truth into his veins,
His screams pure, sterile, and… finally real.
Let him rot in his own white coat.

The last is a trafficker,
Dealer of dreams turned nightmares.
He sold little girls for money and men.
Branded their worth on their thighs,
And slept like a king while they bled.
I strip him bare,
Force him to wear the names of those he broke.
With every scream he offers,
I count another name, another child.
He doesn’t last long.
Cowards rarely do.

And now, the table is empty.
The blades are dull.
The floor is slick with justice.
I light a candle for each soul they stole.
Seven flames flicker—none for them.
Not one prayer.
Not one plea.

Because I do not ask forgiveness
From gods who watched
And did nothing.
Who stayed silent while hymns turned to screams.
Where were they when the children wept?
When innocence died in locked bedrooms
And courtroom lies?
If heaven won’t hold these monsters to fire,
Then I will.
If the angels won’t draw their swords,
Then I’ll become the blade.

I am not holy.
I am not kind.
But I am coming.
For every shadow that thinks it can hide.

Author’s Note (from Rowan Evans):
This piece came from a place beyond me—voiced through B.D. Nightshade, a facet of my writing that channels the rage and vengeance that survivors are so often denied space to feel. While I, Rowan, do not condone violence, I understand the emotional truth in needing justice when the world remains silent. If you are a survivor reading this, know that your pain is valid, your story matters, and you are not alone. Please care for yourself in whatever way you need right now.