The Beautiful Rise of Medusa

Magnificent beyond all measure.
She was loved by all who knew her.
Adored by the one she worshipped.
Her life was beautiful.

But then the tides shifted.
The waves turned ashen grey
And brought forth a hurricane
Of blood and fire.

When it took her,
She tried to fight back,
She tried to escape.
But she found herself wrapped
Up in its icy arms,
Breathing in its tainted breath.

It had overwhelmed her senses
And taken away her dignity.
She cursed her vulnerability and
Fragility.
Unable to flee or move.

She cried for help.
Begged for it.
Unsure if her wails had
Fallen on deaf ears,
She felt abandoned and alone.

Unable to speak her truth,
Her mouth felt like lava,
Filled with stone.
No one would believe her.
She would be discarded
And forced out into the unknown.
A pariah to be shunned.

No one would believe her.

And then it happened.
Her tears dried, and her spirit
Was made anew.
Gone was the pain,
But the memory lived on.
Gone were the bruises,
But the scars still remained.

She became stronger,
Braver,
And more fearless.
Able to withstand the storms
That would surely come.
She would be ready.

Now she walks alone in her
Garden of statues.
She cares for them lovingly,
Sweeping off the debris and dirt
From the Grecian winds.

Those statues were once
Would-be conquerors,
Testing their mettle against her.
They would fall like those before them
And join her in her quiet stone garden.

She is no one’s victim
To be thrown away and
Forgotten.
She is no vengeful demon,
Seeking retribution on anyone.
No.

She is a woman.
Whose spirit was broken,
Shattered into pieces.
But rose out of the depths
Of her shame,
To shape and change her world.

She is the hero of this story.
Our story.
My story.

Because she is me.