I’ve come to you as a ritual of falling trees, paper mills, and flowing ink. I’ve come as a sacrifice to bleed my life as ink on paper.
My blood won’t congeal when I die; it will become books in the libraries.
Today, I pour my ink in libation to those who hurt and grieve and feel pushed to the wall. I write songs of victory that stream as tears from eyes that look like fading sunshine. I write for those with heavy hearts like marble and those who bleed water from exhaustion in their hearts.
I write for every girl who knows what it means be shoved against the wall and her vagina used as a weapon fashioned within her. I write for every boy who grows only to stereotypes of “die daily to show you’re man enough” to a society that forgets he’s first, human.
I write for parents who’ve had to watch their children trapped in destructive circles and had their hearts broken knowing they can’t fix the ones they love.
I write for a society that runs like it’s in a cross country but forgets it’s only standing on a treadmill.
I write to chip the glass that holds us in stagnant waters. I write to give people words to express and simply, be.
I send my words like oxygen, that those who read may inhale and have the courage to exhale negativity.
This life of mine is a sacrifice presented in words
I’ve come as a sacrifice to bleed my life as ink on paper.
My blood won’t congeal when I die; it will become books in the libraries.
By Liza Chuma Akunyili on .
Exported from Medium on February 2, 2026.