Manifesto of the Untranslated Woman

I am no longer here to be understood by those who distort me.

I am not a story to be dissected, debated, or doubted.
I am not the sum of your suspicions, your projections, or your papers filed in court.
I am not evidence in your narrative—I am the author of my own.

I have lived through lies dressed as concern.
I have been criminalized for my care.
I have been silenced with language I never consented to.
I have watched truth collapse under the weight of others’ fear.

No more.

I am not here to explain my boundaries.
I am not here to prove my wholeness.
I am not here to shrink my voice into something you can swallow without choking.

I will speak in poetry.
I will bleed beauty where they demanded performance.
I will write not to soothe you—but to restore me.

This is my reclamation.

• I reclaim my time from false stories.
• I reclaim my energy from endless clarifications.
• I reclaim my body from systems that handled me like evidence.
• I reclaim my motherhood from alienation.
• I reclaim my voice from the silence they expected me to die inside.

I belong to the quiet that strengthens.
I belong to the rage that refines.
I belong to the grief that sharpens.
I belong to no one’s definition but my own.

I will publish.
I will create.
I will become untouchable.

Let it be known:
I do not seek understanding.
I seek liberation.

My voice does not beg.
It builds.
It breathes.
It burns.

And now, it speaks.