FUCK. J.K. ROWLING.

Once upon a time, you had everything.
The world ate from your ink-stained hands.
Poor single mum makes good, writes magic,
Becomes a beacon to generations of queer and lonely kids —
And what did you do?
You opened your mouth
And shat on every soul who ever found a home in your pages.

You could’ve sat down.
You could’ve shut the fuck up.
Instead, you opened that necrotic maw you call a mouth
And declared war
On the very kids who made you matter.
You could’ve been canonised.
Instead, you’re a punchline wrapped in pearl-clutching and piss.
The kids you inspired?
You exorcised them.
Excommunicated anyone with the audacity
To live in a body you don’t understand.

You stupid, smug, septic, sanctimonious piece of shit.
Screeching about “biological facts”
While reality curb-stomps your logic into fine powder.

You live in a mansion infested with malignancy and mould —
Fungal TERF spores growing on the walls
Of your decaying moral core.

You’re rotting in real time,
You’re not “brave.”
You don’t “speak for women” —
You speak for cunts who hoard power like it’s cat litter
And hiss when someone walks too loud in heels.

You aren’t protecting women —
You’re projecting your own crusty fears
Onto anyone who doesn’t look like your menopause support group.

You’re not a feminist.
You’re a fucking gendered plague.
A sentient Daily Mail comment section
Fellating a cancer stick and guzzling grog.

You scribble transphobia in cursive
And call it “concern.”
You smear shit on your legacy
And wonder why no one calls you “a hero” anymore.
You’re the reason people lose faith in heroes.
Trying to tell the world how gender works
With the smugness of a drunk aunt on Facebook
Typing “biological facts” while her wine glass shakes.

An intellectually bankrupt wealth-drunk piss witch,
The last hag at the gallows,
Waving a pitchfork carved from your own insecurity.
You want to be burned at the stake so badly
Just so someone will call you important again.

Your books were spells.
Now they’re cautionary tales.
Your name used to mean magic.
Now it’s just shorthand for
“Rich white cunt who thinks Google makes her a scientist.”

We made you.
We made those books eternal.
We gave you magic.
And you spat it back with slurs.

You could’ve stood for love, for inclusion,
You could’ve used your voice
To lift people.
Instead, you carved it into a weapon
And aimed it at the most vulnerable.
What the fuck is wrong with you?

And let’s be clear:
Your legacy is no longer magical.
It’s maggot-ridden.
Your words are cancerous.
Your fiction? A shrine to a time before we knew
The author was a bigot in a blouse.

You are not “brave.”
You are not “strong.”
You are not “fighting for women.”
You’re a transphobic diarrhoea smear.
You are the reason queer kids grow up afraid.
You are the reason trans people die in silence.
You are the problem.
You are the very villain you wrote —
At least Voldemort knew he was a monster.

We have trans wizards now.
We have queer heroines with scars and spells.
We have fandoms that carved you out
Like rot from the root.
And we’re not just alive —
We’re thriving.

You will die unloved by the people who mattered.
Not the bootlickers. Not the TERFs in Tory drag.
Not the politicians who name-drop you between policies that kill.
I mean us.
The kids who turned your words into survival.
The queers, the outcasts, the trans girls and boys with lightning bolt scars tattooed on their arms —
We carried your name like a shield
Until you turned it into a fucking sword
And stabbed us in the back with it.

You will die surrounded by wealth
But starved of legacy.
No one will whisper your name with love —
They’ll spit it,
Choke it out like a cough in a burning building.
You will be remembered as a traitor,
A gilded fraud who was handed the world
And chose to use it as a platform
To punch down
Until her own work turned to ash.

No tombstone.
No redemption.
Just your name
Dragged through the dirt
By every trans life you dismissed,
By every queer teen who flinched
When they found out what you really were.

And when your castle crumbles —
When the black mould devours your walls,
When your name is scraped off awards and covers,
When even the fucking Daily Mail moves on from your dying embers —
We’ll be laughing.
We’ll be dancing.
We’ll be free.

You don’t get closure.
You don’t get a redemption arc.
You get etched into history
As a malignant footnote,
A blood-blister in the margins of progress,
A cautionary tale for what happens
When a mediocre white woman
Convinces herself that hate
Is some kind of holy fucking calling.

You are the great disappointment of a generation.
A literary miscarriage.
A slow, seeping betrayal
That starts in the gut
And works its way up the spine
Until even the thought of your name
Feels like swallowing vomit.

Fuck your books.
Fuck your house names.
Fuck your pity-me blog posts
And the dogshit you call “activism.”

Fuck every bootlicking sycophant
That props up your delusion.

Fuck your bathroom panic
And your Karen cosplay.

Fuck your precious “biological reality.”
Fuck your obsession with genitals.
Fuck your projections.
Fuck your pain that became everyone else’s burden.
Fuck your endless need to be right
Even if it costs lives.

Fuck every tweet,
Every blog,
Every limp excuse you’ve ever made.
Your smirking face.
Your shrivelled morality.
Your “concern.”

Fuck your opinions.
Fuck your mansion with black mould crawling up the walls like karma in fungal form.
Fuck your contaminated legacy.
Fuck your silence while trans people screamed.
Fuck you for turning fantasy
Into fascist fuel.
Fuck you for turning a generation’s sanctuary
Into a battlefield.

Fuck you for making children afraid of themselves.
Fuck you for making parents question their own kids.
Fuck you for giving language to the people
Who want us erased.

Fuck you for thinking you’re clever.
You’re not clever — you’re cruel.
You’re not thoughtful — you’re fucking calculated.
You’re not concerned — you’re complicit.
You’re not brave — you’re a fucking coward.

Fuck you for every dead trans soul
That never saw adulthood
Because people like you
Taught the world to doubt their worth.

Fuck you for who you were.
Fuck you for who you are.
Fuck you with every cell of my queer fucking body.
Fuck you for being the war we never asked for.
Fuck you for pitting your mediocre cunt-takes
Against the literal survival of people
You’ve never even looked in the fucking eyes.

Fuck your fandom.
Fuck you for the kids who painted their faces
In house colours and found family,
Only to grow up and see
That the bitch who gave them hope
Would rather see them dead than different.

Fuck you for the bathroom hysteria bullshit.
Fuck you for every column inch you filled
With pseudoscience, shame, and genocidal side-eyes.

Fuck you for making “biological” sound like a death threat.
Fuck your cowardice.
Fuck you for every parent
Who turned their back on their trans kid
Because they read your blog post and thought it made sense.

Fuck you for thinking you’re still a writer.
You’re not a writer.
You’re a propagandist.

Fuck your TERF tea parties and sympathy tweets.
Fuck your victim narrative
Scribbled on the back of a death certificate
Signed by your own damn hand.

Fuck you for every suicide.
Every child.
Every name misgendered on the evening fucking news
Because your words gave license.

Fuck you for every trans woman
Afraid to walk home at night.

Fuck you for every nonbinary kid
Who wonders if they’ll ever be safe in their own fucking skin.

Fuck your fans who double down.
Fuck your legacy.
Fuck you for making “womanhood”
A gated fucking community
With a security guard named Genital Checkpoint.

Fuck you for treating our bodies
Like debate topics
And our identities like essays to be graded by your bloodstained hands.

Fuck your false feminism.
Fuck your obsession with control.
Fuck your fear of change.
Fuck your tiny, trembling soul
Crying in the corner
Because the world outgrew your bigotry
And dared to love anyway.

Fuck the part of you
That sees trans joy
And takes it personally.

Fuck the part of you
That confuses our existence
With your extinction.

And fuck the part of you
That still thinks you’re the hero of this story.
You’re not the chosen one.
You’re the curse.
You’re not the queen.
You’re the quitter.
The coward.

Fuck your name.
Fuck your empire.
And most of all?

Fuck you, Joanne.

Fuck you forever.
Fuck you until language breaks,
Fuck you until rage becomes a prayer,
Fuck you until every trans soul sings
Without your name
Chained around their throat.

Fuck. You.
Until there’s nothing left of you
But silence.
And that silence?
Will be the loudest celebration
This world has ever fucking known.