The News Won’t Say Her Name, But I Will

The news won’t say her name, but I will – I’ll carve it into air,
I’ll speak it loud where others won’t, I’ll say it like a prayer.
She was more than ink on a fleeting page, more than a case on file,
More than a number in black and white, more than a name exiled.

She was a daughter, a sister, a friend, she had a voice, a spark,
But now she’s framed in candlelight, another vigil in the dark.
They call her “tragic,” they call her “lost,” they say “a life was taken,”
But never do they speak the hands by which her bones were shaken.

They say she was “found,” as if she was lost, as if she walked away,
As if she chose a fate like this, as if she wished to stay.
They soften the words, they bury the truth, they call it “a family affair,”
They talk around the violent facts like justice isn’t there.

The news won’t say his name, they won’t, they’ll leave his past untold,
They’ll say, “a man was troubled,” or “his mind was dark and cold.”
They’ll search for wounds upon his pride, for reasons he was wronged,
They’ll say, “he was a quiet man,” as if that made her gone.

They won’t recount the times she flinched, the nights she lay in fear,
They won’t recall the warning signs that echoed, crystal clear.
They won’t condemn the world that let him walk, that turned its head away,
That told her “just be careful, love,” and left her to decay.

They write of monsters, shadows vague, of strangers in the night,
But most the devils walk in day, and hide in broad daylight.
They do not come with snarling teeth, or faces cloaked in black,
They kiss the cheek, they hold the door, then stab her in the back.

The news won’t say her name, but I will – I’ll sing it to the sky,
For every woman, every girl, still wondering if she’ll die.
For every time a mother prays, “not my daughter, please,”
For every time a woman screams but justice only flees.

How many times must candles burn, how many flowers laid?
How many names must we recite before the debt is paid?
How many hands must hold the signs, how many throats must yell,
Before we tear the system down – the silent, burning hell?

They ask us why we march so loud, why anger fuels our breath,
They say, “Not all men, you’re too extreme,” while women choke on death.
They say, “But what was she doing there?” “Why did she trust so blind?”
As if a crime is not a crime, unless the dead resigned.

The news won’t say her name, but I will – I’ll carve it into stone,
For all the warnings left ignored, for all the seeds they’ve sown.
For every law that failed to act, for every judge who freed,
For every cop who laughed it off, for every plea that bleeds.

They tell her, “Come forward, we’ll listen, we’ll fight,” but justice twists its lips,
It asks her what she wore that night, it questions how she slipped.
It shakes the hand of power’s men, it lets them walkunscathed,
It writes them letters, grants them bail, and tells her she wassaved.

And so she learns to shrink, to fold, to walk with keys in hand,
To keep her voice all soft and low, to never make demands.
We teach our girls to be afraid, to smile, to just comply,
To nod, to laugh, to not be rude, to never ask them why.

The news won’t say her name, but I will – I’ll weave it into air,
I’ll whisper it in courtrooms cold, I’ll scream it in the square.
For she was not just tragedy, not just another case,
She was a person, full of light, who had a time and place.

She was a future, dreams unsaid, a voice that should have sung,
She was a morning, she was love, she was forever young.
And though they’d rather leave her there, a shadow lost to time,
We’ll write her name in every street, in every march and line.

For justice does not live in ink, in articles that fade,
It does not rest in broken laws, or promises once made.
It lives in rage, in hands held tight, in voices that won’t still,
So say her name, and say it loud – because I always will.

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