The first flyer went up the next morning.


Printed in bold red ink, slapped across the entry wall at The Yard:


“Y’all really letting abuse victims spit fake poems like it’s therapy?”


“Ask Tia about what she did to make Malik snap.”


“Not every survivor is innocent.”


Miss Cee took it down, face tight with fury.


Nova crumpled it, tossed it into the trash with a hiss.


Tia?


She didn’t say anything.


She just stood there and read it.


Then folded it into her bag.


Back at the apartment, Maya paced.


“You know who did that, right?”


Tia nodded. “Of course I do.”


“Then what now?”


“I read it again. I print it out. And I respond.”


Maya raised an eyebrow. “In court?”


Tia shook her head. “On stage.”


That Friday, The Yard was full. Word had spread—about the flyer, about the shade, about the poem that might burn a name off the record permanently.


Tia wore all black. Her curls out. A silver mic tattoo visible on her collarbone, the ink fresh.


She stepped to the mic without a word.


Then dropped the bomb:


“They said I provoked it.

Said I cursed too loud, loved too hard,

Had hips that swayed like invitation.


Said my bruises were earned,

Like blood stains meant I asked the knife to dance.


But here’s the truth:

The only thing I ever did wrong

Was believe love couldn’t hurt me on purpose.


So tell Malik—

And all the ones like him—

That the only thing I’ll ever apologize for

Is waiting this long to speak.”


The crowd snapped. Then rose.


Miss Cee wiped a tear.


Nova watched from the booth—jaw clenched, chest rising slow.


Tia bowed her head and whispered to herself before leaving the stage:


“This is how I bloom now—unashamed.”