The storm came early,
before I had learned the names of winds,
before I knew
that silence could howl.
Still, I rise.

They spoke in fractures—
breaking dreams like glass
and stepping over the glinting remains
with clean shoes.
Still, I rise.

I was told to fold—
to press myself into something smaller,
softer,
less.
But fire has no interest
in shrinking.
Still, I rise.

Under the weight of doubt,
I did not disappear.
I grew roots instead—
tangled, unpretty,
deep.
Still, I rise.

Even when the mirrors lied,
even when the days cracked open
without promise,
I gathered myself
in pieces if I had to.
Still, I rise.

Not because I never fell—
but because I chose
again and again
to stand.
Still, I rise.