There are certain stories that deserve to be told,
That we have a duty to tell,
To recite,
Like truth itself,
And chant,
Igniting liberation,
Freedom.

We can hear each striking wave becoming something bigger,
Like power that is voicelessly growing,
And pain,
The beautiful kind.

The stories that are underneath us and within us.

The yelling back of the words that demean us.

Some like to say
‘womanhood = vagina’
‘gender roles = your choice’
‘patriarchy = myth’
‘naming oppression = the victimisation of men’.

But we say
Solidarity is our voice
And our stories are our rhythmic songs of truth.

There are certain stories that deserve to be told,
That we have a duty to tell.

Words that belong in our hearts are constantly made political,
Because silence is more destructive than sorrow,
And there is no excuse for reinforcing our relegation.

The freedom that you offer me is not the kind I want:
What good is the law if we are not allowed to rewrite it?

Hope is when we make this moment a shame that is read aloud like history.

These conflicting veins of hope make change inevitable,
Strength immutable.

There are certain stories that deserve to be told,
That we have a duty to tell.

We are a movement that is infinitely capable of loving,
Chanting discarded discourse,
Forever alive with the stories we own.

With every fist we name each haunting word,
And fight each silence with life itself.