Ashes To Resilience

I was born in the smoke of silence, where names were weapons, and love came laced with barbed wire. They said I was too much, too loud, too raw, a wildfire in a world of trimmed hedges. But I learned to speak in embers, to write with the heat of survival, to stitch my wounds with verses that refused to bleed quietly. From the ashes of hate, I rose—not polished, but blazing. Resilience isn’t soft. It’s the roar beneath the whisper, the spine forged in fire, the poem that dares to exist when the world says “don’t.”