In shadows where his words took root,
'You'll amount to nothing, ' he would say,
Prophecies of failure, absolute,
While mother turned her gaze away.
The devil's child, he named me then,
Confined within those watching walls.
Each day, new threats to break me when
No witnesses could hear my calls.
By sixteen I was meant to fall,
According to his cruel design.
But something in me stood up tall,
Drew strength from depths I knew were mine.
Years passed beneath that darkened roof,
Each breath a battle to survive.
Each day I gathered silent proof
That I was meant to thrive, alive.
Now standing in my own light's glow,
The scars remain but do not bind.
I've built the life he said I'd never know,
Reclaiming spaces in my mind.
His voice grows fainter day by day,
Though echoes linger, I confess.
I'm learning how to make my way
Beyond the shadows of distress.
This life I lead belongs to me,
Not shaped by someone else's rage.
In healing, I am breaking free,
Writing my story, page by page.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem