There was a girl, or so they thought,
whose childhood was a war she never fought.
The playground’s laughter, sharp as knives,
cut through the fragile skin of her life.
At nine, she watched her father break,
a soul too heavy, too much to take.
At eleven, the river stole him away,
leaving her with nights that swallowed day.
Her chest became a hollow cave,
four times she reached for the quiet grave.
Yet death denied her the sweet release,
leaving her lost, longing for peace.
The one she loved, with words like chains,
and their family’s cold and bitter reign,
made her a shadow, a servant unseen,
and her brother and mother were trapped between.
Each day was a storm with teeth and claws,
every step a battle without pause.
The walls whispered lies she could not fight,
and the darkness consumed her every night.
They read her story and thought it was someone else,
a tale of sorrow, a stranger’s lost self.
But here she stands, trembling and small,
bearing a burden too heavy for all.
Yet even in the blackest, coldest rain,
a tiny spark survives the pain.
Her scars are deep, her nights unkind,
but still she breathes, her spirit confined.
It is not a tale, not another’s cries,
this is my life, my truth, my skies.
These are my wounds, my endless tears,
and still I stand, despite my fears.
Even if the world still tries to break,
even if silence is all she can take,
a faint heartbeat whispers, fragile and true:
I am here. I breathe. I continue.