The Girl Who Spoke in Molotovs 🍸🔥
She lit the match with her mouth. This isn't metaphor; it's a manifesto.
Not every war starts with a weapon; some start with a whisper.
Written by Rebecca M. Bell
The Girl Who Spoke in Molotovs
They will say we were quiet.
They will say we complied.
They will say we chose this—
and I need you to remember
who wrote the script they’re reading from.
You were not born to bow.
You were born mid-battle,
in the hush between sirens,
in a room that smelled like bleach and burning hope—
and still your mother held you
like you were the second coming
of something holy and undefeated.
The news will not tell you what to mourn.
The flag will not weep for you.
The anthem does not know your name.
But I do.
And I’ve seen what you carry in the quiet—
The ache.
The rage.
The grief too wide for grammar.
Let me spell it out:
They lied.
About who belongs.
About what freedom costs.
About who’s allowed to scream.
This poem is not a metaphor.
It is a map.
A matchstick.
A Molotov dressed in meter.
Every rhyme is a riot.
Every stanza, a step toward the breach.
They trained you to sit still,
but this—
this is your permission slip
to stand and keep standing
until the earth remembers her name.
Because somewhere in the static,
the crowd is shifting.
Because somewhere in the marrow,
a myth is waking.
Because somewhere in the distance,
the song begins:
No kings.
No cages.
No gods—but the ones we make of each other.
This is the part of the story
where the silence ends.
This is the line they tried to redact.
This is the part you were born for.
So rise.
Not gently.
Not cleanly.
But loudly, like a prophecy.
Like a poem that refuses to be censored.
Like a people who finally remembered
they were never the ones who needed permission.
Fire in the hole,
—Rebecca M. Bell
@rmbellwrites