She was born where the walls would tremble and sway,
Where love came in shouting, then drifted away.
Where silence could cut like a whispering blade,
And kindness was rare as the warmth of May.
Her mother drank storms and let them cascade
On young, aching shoulders, alone and afraid.
She never asked thunder to fall from the skies,
But still bore the weight under tear-salted eyes.
She learned that trust is a word carved out in stone-
Left out in the rain, eroded, alone.
She gave hers to hands that vowed to stay,
But they shattered her trust and then walked away.
At thirteen, her world didn’t fully fall down,
But something inside her refused to be found.
She stopped seeking mirrors, stopped seeking sound,
Felt sure that no soul would hear if she drowned.
Bur deep in the dark, she found ink and a page-
A space to release her quietest rage.
She wrote to survive, let sorrow flow,
To dream of a world where kind hands would grow.
word upon word, she built from the pain,
A self, made of fire, of hope, of the rain.
She grew-not just older-but fiercely and right,
A warrior shaped in the absence of light.
Now she’s a mother, a woman, a flame,
Who shields her own from sorrow and shame.
She listens, she holds, she stands strong and true,
Becoming the love, she never once knew.
The past still whispers, but cannot command;
It doesn’t define her, it doesn’t stand.
She writes-not to flee, but to chart the climb,
Each line a reminder: she rose every time.
She tells the girl hidden deep in her mind,
“We made it, we lived, we rose, and we shined.
The monsters are silent-they don’t get the end.
We write the last word, with strength as our pen.”
