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.