You can be a bitch, or kill your angel. - By Salem Youngblood

Written By: Salem Youngblood

Category: Poetry

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the poignant poem "You can be a bitch, or kill your angel," Salem Youngblood delves into the intricate themes of self-discovery and the struggle against societal constraints. Featured in the esteemed Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this piece captures the essence of breaking free from the ingrained expectations placed upon women. With its evocative language and compelling narrative, Youngblood's work offers a profound reflection on identity and empowerment.

About the Work

Salem Youngblood's poem is a narrative exploration of self-awareness and defiance against societal norms. It skillfully examines the internalized pressures women face and the journey towards reclaiming one's voice and identity. Through vivid imagery and emotional depth, Youngblood challenges the reader to confront the damaging narratives imposed by society and encourages a pursuit of truth and authenticity.

You can be a bitch, or kill your angel.

Original Submission by Salem Youngblood

I believe my Angel taught me to hate myself before I knew my own name. She never came with wings.

She wore the faces of the women I loved.

She spoke with their voices.

She hid behind them whenever they pinched my body, whenever they looked at me with quiet disappointment, whenever they taught me that a girl should spend her whole life apologizing for the crime of existing in a body.

I was six years old the first time someone called me fat.

Six.

Old enough to lose baby teeth.

Old enough to collect rocks because they reminded me of dragons’ eggs. Old enough to believe every cruel thing an adult said was simply another fact about the world. I believed them.

Children always do.

Years later I found photographs of myself at that age. I studied each image the way an archaeologist brushes dirt from bone, certain I would find the child they described. I wanted swollen cheeks. A stomach jutting over my shorts. Proof their words had corresponded with something real.

Instead I found a girl.

A perfectly ordinary girl.

Round in the places where children are supposed to be round. Soft because children are supposed to be soft. Smiling with the reckless confidence of someone who had not yet learned her reflection was now public property.

I stared at those photographs for a long time.

I kept asking the same question.

If I wasn’t fat…

Why did they want me to believe I was?

The question has haunted me longer than the insult itself.

Little girls who believe they are ugly do not take up much space.

They fold themselves in.

They apologize before they speak.

They learn gratitude for scraps.

They mistake survival for love.

You do not have to build a cage around a girl who already believes she deserves one. That is the genius of the Angel in the House.

She does not chain women.

She teaches us to become our own jailers.

But then my body failed me.

Or the world failed my body.

I was eight years old when I developed breasts.

Eight.

I still slept with stuffed animals. I still cried when dogs died in movies. I still believed monsters lurked beneath my bed because monsters made more sense than people.

The women around me noticed before I did.

Then the men did.

I did not understand their looks.

I only understood they felt wrong.

Their eyes lingered too long. Conversations shifted when I entered rooms. Smiles acquired teeth. I could not have articulated what was happening, but my body understood before my mind ever could. It stiffened. It learned vigilance. It learned that fear could become instinct long before language arrived to explain it.

Imagine being a child and realizing strangers have begun reading your body as a story you never wrote.

Imagine discovering that your flesh has become a public discussion before you have even learned long division.

Imagine learning that value is something others assign to you, people who will never bother to know your favorite color, your dreams, the names you’ve given the birds outside your bedroom window.

I learned very quickly girlhood has no correct answer.

Women told me I took up too much space.

Men taught me my body existed to occupy their imagination.

One demanded I become smaller.

The other insisted I had already become something they could consume. Both required my silence.

I have often heard people say women also enforce patriarchy, as though that somehow surprises me.

Of course they do.

The Angel survives because mothers inherit her from grandmothers. Teachers inherit her from mothers. Friends inherit her from magazines, churches, classrooms, whispered warnings, dressing-room mirrors, and generations of women who were told that pain becomes easier to survive if you convince another girl she deserves it too.

Patriarchy is most effective when women learn to speak in its voice.

The wound becomes hereditary.

The knife finds daughters.

Virginia Woolf wrote it was necessary to kill the Angel in the House because otherwise she would pluck the heart from her writing.

Mine tried to pluck the heart from me.

She told me anger was unbecoming.

That good women forgive.

That good women smile.

That good women are pleasant, accommodating, agreeable, endlessly grateful for whatever scraps they receive.

She whispered that if I were prettier someone would love me.

If I were quieter someone would keep me.

If I were thinner someone would choose me.

If I were softer no one would hurt me.

She lied.

There is no amount of obedience capable of bargaining with cruelty.

There is no body beautiful enough to escape misogyny.

There is no girl so small that the world decides she deserves to remain untouched.

Eventually something inside me stopped asking to be loved by people committed to misunderstanding me.

Not all at once.

Slowly.

Like a nerve dying.

Like frost creeping across a window.

Like rot claiming a house one beam at a time until the structure can no longer pretend it is intact.

The Angel did not die cleanly.

She screamed.

She called me bitter.

She called me difficult.

She called me hysterical.

How convenient that history has always had a diagnosis prepared for women who refuse obedience.

Bertha Mason was called insane.

The woman behind the yellow wallpaper was diagnosed instead of heard.

Countless women were institutionalized because their grief, their fury, their exhaustion, or simply their refusal made men uncomfortable.

How remarkable that the cage is always mistaken for the illness.

If I kill my Angel, I do not become monstrous.

I become audible.

I write girls who were never ugly, only introduced to themselves through someone else’s cruelty. I write women whose bodies belong first to themselves.

I write rage without sanding away its teeth to make it easier to swallow.

I write every sentence the Angel would have begged me to erase.

She wanted beauty.

I want truth.

And truth is this:

There are little girls alive today staring into mirrors, searching for flaws adults carefully planted inside them.

There are eight-year-olds learning to fear the gaze of grown men before they understand why it burns.

There are women carrying decades of shame inside bodies that were never the problem. The Angel says survival depends upon remaining pleasant.

I have survived her.

Now she can survive me.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a celebrated platform for poets and writers worldwide. It aims to showcase diverse voices and foster a community of creativity and expression. Participants are encouraged to submit their original works, contributing to a rich tapestry of literary excellence and cultural dialogue.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Salem Youngblood for sharing the powerful poem "You can be a bitch, or kill your angel" with the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your words resonate deeply, offering strength and insight to many. Thank you for your contribution to this year's competition.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.