I cradle my broken parts like sacred relics,  

each crack a roadmap of survival,  

each scar a badge of unspoken battles.

I lean into the tremor of old wounds,  

whispering love into the places shame once lived,  

teaching my skin to remember kindness  

instead of fear.

When trauma knocks with its jagged fists,  

I open the door with an open heart—  

not as a weakness, but as a declaration:  

I will not shrink from your pain.

I pour gentle light into those shadowed rooms,  

naming each ghost by its true name:  

“Here is hurt. Here is longing. Here is sorrow.”  

No more hush. No more hiding.

I fold my anguish into arms wide enough to hold it,  

rocking it softly with compassion’s lullaby,  

until the edges of guilt dissolve  

and forgiveness blooms in the quiet.

This is my rebellion: to greet pain  

with a cup of tenderness,  

to feed my wounds  

not with blame, but with balm.

I learn to breathe through each memory,  

offer my tremors a place at the table,  

remind myself that love  

is the only weapon strong enough  

to soften the hardest hurt.

In this revolution of the heart,  

I stand unafraid—  

a warrior armed with empathy,  

ready to transform every crack into light.