I been runnin’ through mirrors with a cracked reflection,
truth in a chokehold, beggin’ for direction.
Built from the wreckage, stitched from confession,
pain’s my professor, trauma’s my lesson.

I ain’t the saint — just holy-ish on a good day,
a little rough grace in a mortal ballet.
Still learnin’ peace where the wreckage lay,
turnin’ every scar into somethin’ I say.

I spit these lines like I’m purgin’ sin,
ink on my tongue where the fire’s been.
You can’t fake peace when the war’s in your chest,
can’t fake love when your ghost won’t rest.

So yeah, I write for the ones who’re gone,
for the girls who bled just to carry on.
If survival’s an art — I’m the canvas, torn —
every scar’s the day I was reborn.{/b}

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