The first slap made her ears tingle,
Her eyes rolled to the back and came back red.
Blood, pain, regret, and shame all wrapped up in one
Was this the hurt that came with love?
Her heart begged for mercy, but her lips were too swollen to speak.
Still, she arose.
The night knew her name.
The demons built a nest in her orbit,
And the valley cradled her like death.
The darkness was familiar: quiet, tortured, freeing.
But morning came,
And still, she arose.
They called her broken, fragile, unfit for the weight of the world.
A woman’s true virtue is her ability to be patient, they said,
Her pride is in her home, in her crown,
If you leave, you are a failure, a broken woman.
Little did they know, the crown was made of thorns
Still, she arose.
Slow, unsteady, but brave,
She gathered the pieces and stitched the wounds
With every sigh came a revival,
A reawakening of a soul long lost and forgotten.
With each flicker of light, the darkness dimmed.
So, still, she arose
Arisen with stitches, she no longer hides from the light.
Scars, telling a tale of defiance, rebellion and redemption.
She walks taller, even though she still trembles.
Steady but sure, alone but free.
A limp, a fall, a defeat;
But still, she has risen.
To every woman still gathering her pieces, may you rise, even if all you can do today is breathe.
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