To the writer who confused ego for effort,
I honored you.
I saw your work, your blood-soaked ink, and I bowed to it.
Not because I had to.
But because I know what it means to build a world from bones.
But you—
You looked at my fire and called it fake.
Because you couldn’t imagine a woman rising without breaking the way you did.
Let me be clear:
Your struggle is not the only currency of greatness.
Your hardship is not the only map to creation.
And your bitterness?
It won’t buy you legacy.
I don’t write for your approval.
I don’t shape stories to fit your cage.
And I will not shrink because you decided comfort came before class.
You blocked me?
Darling, I was never behind you to begin with.
I don’t need your seat at the table.
I’m building my own goddamn temple.
One word, one flame, one universe at a time.
And guess what?
The world will hear my voice—whether I write it by candlelight or conjure it through code.
You keep your war.
I’ll keep my crown.
— Triporna