Let me speak.
Not soft. Not cute. Not filtered.
But raw.
Like prayers whispered through cracked lips
and teeth clenched so tight
they started spelling resilience.

Let me speak
not the version of me they edited.
Not the version that fits in your timeline,
but the one that cried in the shower
and still showed up like it was fine.

I ain’t here for pity.
I’m here for power.
I’m here for the girl who stayed
when love turned sour.

I’m here for the ones
with a past they can’t post,
who carry their trauma quiet,
like a ghost in their throat.

I was raised by silence.
Grew up on chaos.
Mama gone. Daddy gone.
But somehow I still made a way out.

You don’t know me
but I’ve sat with demons who knew my name.
Danced with shame.
Woke up screaming,
then praised God in the same breath like
“Lord… don’t let this pain go in vain.”

Let me speak.
For the moms with babies they’re still fighting to see.
For the addicts who got clean
but still smell the streets in their sleep.
For the girls with inked-up skin
and a heart so loud,
it broke through every lie they were told
just by beating proud.

Let me speak
not for show,
but so you know
you’re not the only one
still putting pieces back together
and calling it soul.

I’ve been stepped on,
slept on,
left on read,
and still rose from the bed
like grief was a blanket
and I learned how to tuck it in instead.

I’m not broken.
I’m building.
Not bitter.
Just healing.

And maybe my love is too deep,
too holy,
too hood,
but I know it’s real
’cause even God stayed
when nobody else would.

So when I speak,
let it echo for the ones who never got the mic.
For the quiet ones, the scared ones,
the “why me” types.

Let me speak
and let every word remind you:
you’ve already survived
what tried to blind you.

You are not your silence.
You are not what they skipped.
You are the poem
God never forgot to script.

So if I go out,
I’m going out loud.
Every wound I carry,
I carry it proud.

Now
let me speak.