Survival is its own kind of violence.
It taught me to bare my teeth
when love leaned in too close,
to strike first before the blow could land.
What else could I do?
When the world came at me with closed fists,
my heart became a weapon.

I see the fragments now,
of the friendships ruined,
the family that shut me out.
Their voices linger,
‘She’s chaos in the flesh,
a human storm,’
and they aren’t wrong for it.

I know I hurt them,
turned words into blades
and love into collateral damage.
I know the fault lines are mine,
that I burned bridges faster
than they could build lifeboats.

My unresolved pain
started unnecessary battles,
but taking sole accountability feels
a lot like surrendering —
like their wounds matter but mine don’t.

I am exhausted.
Tired of building fortresses
when I want to build a home.
I want to let go of the anger,
but I don’t know where to lay it down.
I want to break the chain without
breaking anymore of myself.

But for once, I want someone to see me—
not as the storm I’ve become,
but as the girl who weathered one.