They see the flowers in my hair,
the way I walk like I belong to sunlight,
how my laugh curls at the edges
like the petals of a rose in bloom—
but they do not see the paper cut
on the heart behind my ribs,
the tear in the soul’s quiet fabric
stitched together by nights I did not cry,
because even tears felt too loud.

I wear grace like silk—
draped in poise and painted calm—
but beneath,
the silence of battles no one names
roars like thunder in a padded room.
I bleed invisibly.
But still, I rise visibly.

Some days, I feel like a haunted house
with stained-glass windows—
the light filters in,
but it doesn’t always stay.
Yet even in that shifting glow,
I have learned to love
the shadowed corners of myself—
they tell the stories no one else dares to read.

I am not broken—I am becoming.
Not ugly—I am unfolding.
Even when the ache claws its way through my chest,
I remember:
this body is a gallery of survival.
My smile is not a mask—
it is a rebellion,
a hymn for the girl who once thought
she had to hide her cracks
to be called beautiful.

Now I know better.

Now I know that beauty
is not in the unscarred,
but in the ones who rise with softness
even after being shattered.
In the ones who dare to carry light
into their own darkness
and whisper:
“You are seen. You are whole. You are still you.”