I am the woman they do not see,

Walking the streets of Monrovia free—

Or so they say. But freedom is hollow when choice is denied,

When foreign hands shape what’s inside

My body, my future, my destiny.

They call it a rule, a “gag” so tight,

Binding my voice, burying my rights.

Doctors who once would answer my plea

Now turn away—they fear, not me.

A whispered word could shut their doors,

Leave me bleeding on clinic floors.

The midwife sighs, her hands are tied,

She sees too many young girls die.

A child with a child, too young to bear,

No voice, no choice—just silent despair.

Not even a whisper of what could be,

For silence is policy, not sympathy.

But I am not silent. I never will be.

For justice is louder than their decree.

Liberia’s daughters will rise and demand,

Our bodies belong to our hands.

No law from abroad will darken our light—

We are the future, and we will fight.