They called me names I never chose,
each word an insult dressed in dust.
It settled on my shoulders slow,
teaching me that silence could rust.
I walked the halls with careful steps,
learning how a glance could bruise,
how laughter sharp as broken glass
could make a heart forget its use.
Some days I felt so insecure,
like even light would pass me by—
a shadow stitched from whispered taunts,
a question mark against the sky.
But still I rose, though trembling, tired,
my paper-thin armor bending through—
and in the mirror found a spark,
a quiet voice that whispered: You.
Not what they said.
Not what they claimed.
Not what their hurt could ever weigh.
And though the wounds may take their time,
my spirit learns a brighter way.
Therapy Bits 
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