ink to bleed

cast me out as the beast,
painted my hide with their sins,
drove me into the ring,
where the sand is stained
with stories they refuse to tell.

They came with blades,
sharp with expectation,
sure of their role —
I was the target,
the dark force to conquer,
the scapegoat to bleed dry
so they could leave clean.

But they didn’t know
I held a pen beneath my rage,
that my strength wasn’t just muscle,
but words waiting to strike.
So I let them dance,
waving their red flags of blame,
circling me, taunting me,
thinking they had won.

But in the center of that ring,
I lowered my head
not to charge,
but to write.

Each word carved in the dust
became a truth they couldn’t twist,
a story they couldn’t silence.
I bled ink, not fear,
and the crowd went still
as they saw my power wasn’t in my horns,
but in my voice,
my refusal to play their game.

The matador faltered,
unsure of this new dance —
how do you fight a bull
who writes poems,
who turns the spectacle
into a mirror,
showing them all
what they came to avoid?

So I stand in the ring,
unbroken, unbowed,
the scapegoat who found his voice,
and in every word,
I remind them —
this is not your story to tell.