Everything built by fear
will fall by its own hand.

History forgets.
Power lies.
Walls rot.
Names change.

And still -
there is a current under the noise.
A pulse in the dust.
A thousand invisible hands
holding up the sky.

We are not promised survival.
But we are proof it is possible.

I'm always the lesson,
never the praise.
Told to be better
in quiet ways.

The words aren't cruel,
but they still land rough-
measured and weighed,
never enough.

It's in the looks
the way they compare,
like I'm just less
for even being there.

I carry the blame
for things I don't do,
swallow the doubt
until it feels true.

They don't see the cracks,
the ones they made-
all for the sake
of keeping one name safe.

I shouldn't have to earn
what should be mine-
a place, a voice,
a moment in time.

But I keep the peace,
stay small, stay still,
hoping they'll notice
I'm breaking at will.

I once met a fish who forgot
what it was like to swim.
So it stayed in the river,
waiting for the waves to come to it.

The trees told me,
"Stop looking for a way out."
But I didn't hear them-
I was too busy listening
to the wind ask me why I was still standing still.

One day, I realized
the ocean had always been inside me,
but I was too busy looking at the shore.

The rain falls soft,
but it's not the kind that drowns.
It's the kind that whispers,
"you'll figure it out somehow."

I've stumbled,
I've stood tall.
I've learned that falling
isn't failing after all.

Not everything fits,
and not every piece is mine,
but I'm starting to see
how the puzzle looks in time.

I'll burn,
I'll heal,
I'll keep what I can.
Life isn't perfect,
but it's all part of the plan.

I'm not hard to read.
You just keep looking
for softness
in places I've already
set on fire.

I'm not soft,
but I'm not cold.
I'm made of edges
that know when to hold.

I laugh loud,
love louder,
and walk like I own
the ground I was told
not to stand on.

No one teaches you how to grieve the life you thought you'd have.
How to carry versions of yourself that never made it.

How to smile with cracked teeth
or love with a heart that flinches.

They don't teach you that bravery
is sometimes just making it to next week.
That healing isn't pretty-
it's messy, loud, and sometimes lonely.

But you learn.
You learn to sit with the silence.
To keep living like maybe
the best part hasn't happened yet.