The God Who Remembers the Forgotten Girls

The god of forgotten girls

does not sit on a throne.

She squats in corners,

barefoot and wild-eyed,

braiding strands of unspoken dreams

into necklaces no one ever wears.

She is the one who watches

when your voice cracks

and you pretend it didn’t.

She is the echo

inside the locked bathroom door,

the flicker in the mirror

when you look away too fast.

She walks the halls

of abandoned schools

where girls once hid poems

in torn book spines

and carved their names into desks

so they wouldn’t disappear.

She knows the scent

of burning journals.

She drinks the salt

of secrets swallowed too long.

She hums lullabies

to the versions of you

that never made it home.

She doesn’t ask for prayers.

She asks for remembering.

She asks you to light candles

for the girl you were

before the world rewrote her.

And if you do—

if you really do—

you’ll hear her laugh like thunder

and whisper in your bones:

“You were never lost.

You were waiting.

And I never stopped looking.”

⸻

✧ Poet’s Note (for Vocal):

This poem is a prayer for every girl who survived erasure, silencing, or shame—and still carries a spark. It’s a tilt toward memory, toward the sacred feminine watching in the margins. If you’re reading this, you are already being remembered.