Still, I Rise in Color
for the ones losing hair, light, and hope—this is you.
They said I was nothing special.
Just a crawling thing,
skin too thin,
eyes too tired,
body too slow to ever matter.
I heard them whisper.
“He looks worse every day.”
“She’s losing her hair now.”
“Poor thing.”
And worse—
the pity in their voices
cut more than the words.
I wanted to hide.
Wanted to leave this skin,
this pain,
this mirror that won’t show me
who I used to be.
But something small inside me
held on.
Not loudly—
just enough to breathe.
They don’t see
how much it hurts
to keep trying.
To wake up with tubes and needles
and still smile for the ones who visit.
To fight
even when the fight
has taken everything.
But still—
I keep going.
Not because it’s easy.
Because it matters.
Like a caterpillar
mocked for its shape,
for the way it moves,
for how “ugly” it looks
while becoming.
No one claps
for the struggle in the cocoon.
No one sees the tearing,
the blood,
the near-death quiet
before wings happen.
But one day,
I will rise.
Not perfect.
Not untouched.
But real.
Alive.
Wings colored by every wound I survived.
And if you ever feel
too broken to be beautiful again,
remember—
a butterfly was once barely breathing too.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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