Out of nothingness.
Dark, cramped, lonely nothingness.
Nothingness that was suffocating and empty
and loud and deadly quiet
and shocking and sterile
All at the same time.
Out of the long hallways that I stepped into everyday with no light at the end
And no flashlight to keep me from tripping on my bitter insecurities
and silent demons
and crumpled fears.
Out of the hole I dug continuously deeper,
Trying to bury my imperfections from the world,
but in reality trying to hide them from myself.
Out of the bruises and battle scars and bit off fingernails as short as my temper.
Out of endless rage.
Endless sadness.
Endless silent tears stained into my cheeks and onto my pillow.
Out of hatred.
Out of the struggles and the stress and the long sleepless nights.
Out of uncertainty.
I was born.
I was born out of my own bloodshed and it has made me
Strong.
I am strong because I know weakness.
I accept it; I welcome it as an old friend.
Because I know I created it,
and in turn,
It created me.