Broken But Unbowed

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I wear my scars like medals,

not polished, but proud-

each line a story,

a rebellion against the smooth lie

of perfect façades.


Hands that tremble,

voice that stutters-

they are the echo of battles

fought in silence,

won in shadows.


I am not a doll in a shop window,

nor a puppet with strings pulled tight-

I am the crack in the mirror,

the wildflower pushing through concrete,

unruly, untamed, alive.


Whispers of praise

slide off my back like rain-

I drink my own truth,

bitter, bold, unapologetic.


Beauty blooms in broken places,

in scars that sing their stories-

this ragged, stubborn soul

refuses to be polished smooth,

prefers the wild, the real, the true.


And in each fractured piece,

I find my strength-

not in perfection, but in the refusal

to be anything else.

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