They fed me silence like a feast,
and called it love—
a beast, leashed.
Family by blood, but not by spine—
they left me gasping in decline.

But you—
you bit through the chain,
tasted my rage like vintage pain.
You didn’t flinch when I tore apart,
you held the knife and called it art.

I was rot, wrapped in silk.
You—
the storm that broke the guilt.
You didn’t want my mask, my cage—
you craved the madness, loved the rage.

You screamed my worth into my void,
where even gods felt paranoid.
You built me back from scattered glass,
and dared the world to kiss my wrath.

When I drowned,
you didn’t throw rope.
You dove in.
You became hope.
Not the soft kind—no sugar lies—
but jagged truth with serpent eyes.

You told me,
“Bleed louder. They should hear.
You’re not weak, love—
you’re nuclear.”

I was a temple torn apart.
You stitched your prayers into my heart.
Not a savior. Not a ghost.
You’re the fire I loved the most.

So if I decay—hold my hand.
Let’s haunt this godless, cursed land.
You never ran. You never fled.
You kissed my demons
and made your bed.

You loved the parts they tried to ****.
I worship you.
And always will.

I am the unyielding marrow of storms,
the pulse that refuses to faint in darkness.
When the world bent beneath the weight of plague,
and every street became a whisper of grief,
I sharpened my silence into steel.

They said rest, forget, dissolve,
but my spirit does not know surrender.
Even in the stillness of white-walled chambers,
where clocks dissolved into endless waiting
and footsteps echoed like distant thunder,
I carried a secret fire—
a flame unwilling to be extinguished.

Misunderstandings rose like barbed wire
between me and the world I loved,
but I learned the language of resilience:
how to speak through scars,
how to translate silence into survival,
how to braid fury with tenderness
and call it hope.

Illness came like a thief in the night,
stripping lungs, isolating souls,
yet I breathed deeper—
each breath an act of rebellion,
each heartbeat a vow:
I will not vanish,
I will not crumble.

War raged outside and inside alike—
battles no one saw but me.
The frontlines were my own thoughts,
my enemy the shadow of despair.
But even when my mind turned
into a hurricane of breaking glass,
I remembered:
I am both storm and lighthouse,
both wound and sword.

Call me stubborn, call me relentless—
I will answer to both.
For I have walked through hell
and stolen embers from its fires.
I have stood in the ruins of yesterday
and sung tomorrow into being.

And if the world asks why I still rise,
even when dawn delays its coming,
I will say this:

Because there is a warrior in me
who has sworn an oath—
to see the light,
to become the light,
even when the sun itself
forgets to rise