I used to think
survival
should look graceful.
A woman
walking away
without shaking.
A clean boundary.
A calm voice.
No mess.
No rage.
Then life
backed me
into enough corners
that I learned
better.
Sometimes
survival
bares its teeth.
Sometimes
healing says
fuck off.
Sometimes
the softest person
in the room
has to become
the thing
no one wants
to corner twice.
I am not proud
of every snarl.
Not every bite
was necessary.
But I refuse
to be ashamed
that my body
learned
how to defend
the life
inside it.
There is
a difference
between cruelty
and claws.
Between hurting
for pleasure
and fighting
for air.
So yes,
I still have
soft hands.
I still love
flowers.
I still cry
at beautiful things.
But tenderness
does not mean
toothless.
Come close
with kindness.
Come closer
with harm
and meet
what survived.
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