I was eleven when I was told that I couldn’t be a butterfly.
that those pretty little wings of mine were defective, unwanted.
I didn’t need wings if they didn’t catch their eyes, they said.
the little girl of that day still lives with me now.

I was thirteen when I felt like I was sinking.
They didn’t notice how I was clawing, calling out to stay afloat;
my voice losing its strength as the water flooded into my breath, my bones—
and I realized that I didn’t need to breathe to survive.
the suffocation of that day still haunts me now.

I was fifteen when I first felt my heart ripped out of my chest.
My mind had become my enemy,
my words became weapons that cut a fragile bond—
and I realized that I didn’t need my heart to love.
the scars of that day still cover me now.

I was eighteen when my heart was touched by a hand so warm,
my breath given by a stream of life,
my wings were shown to me by a word of love
and life felt whole, enough to move on.

I’m nineteen now and still learning to use the wings I have lost
beginning to find meaning in life and not just survive,
feeling other hearts as mine slowly returns.

I still feel the little girl around my arm,
the water around my mouth
the claws around my heart
But now I have the voice I needed in my ears,
telling me that I will be fine.

I can be broken but still heal,
I can fight drowning with a voice,
I can hurt but still deserve love.