Let me speak
not from a script,
but from the smoke still clinging to my ribs.
From the silence that raised me,
from the nights I begged God not to let it break me.
I ain’t perfect,
but baby, I’m proof.
That even shattered glass can catch the truth.
That even a girl with dirt on her dreams
can still touch heaven
if she knows what it means.
See, they only see the calm.
Not the war I buried under my palm.
They don’t know I prayed with a cracked voice
and still thanked God like I had a choice.
I didn’t come from love wrapped in lace
I came from survival,
from fire,
from grace.
I walked through things that should’ve left me numb,
but look
I still cry, still love, still rise like the sun.
So when I speak,
I don’t speak to impress.
I speak for the ones who feel too much,
but still settle for less.
I speak for the ones who whisper in the dark
and wish someone could read their heart.
This ain’t performance.
This is a promise.
To the girl still waiting for her father,
to the mom who got clean for her daughter,
to the soul who sees visions in smoke,
but don’t know if it’s healing or just hope
I’m you.
I’ve been there.
Still there.
But I keep climbing air.
So don’t clap for the strength,
clap for the scars.
Clap for the faith it takes
to love with a bruised heart.
I don’t need a crown.
I’ve already been chosen.
By storms that didn’t drown me,
by hands that stayed open.
And maybe I’m still healing,
but every word I bleed
is one less chain
on somebody else’s wings.
So let me speak
not for fame,
but for freedom.
Let me be the voice
you didn’t know you needed
until your soul whispered:
“Me too.”
