I discovered how to breathe in a place where the air felt taken away, where each step felt like it was scraping my bones, and yesterday lingered like dirt beneath my nails. The nights were anything but peaceful—they growled. The ceilings observed as I fell apart slowly, in a raw and unrefined way. No one was aware of my struggle—but the darkness was. It forced ink into my hands and urged me to release it. So I did. I transformed pain into something sharp, creating lines that cut before they healed, crafting words that demanded truth without asking for mercy. I wasn’t mending myself. I was pulling my body onward, turning my bruises into a rhythm, making my survival resonate loudly. There’s strength in remaining when leaving seems simpler. There’s a fight in breathing when your chest protests. I’m not free from it—I’m shaped by it. Burned, bent, yet still present. And now when I reflect, I don’t see frailty—I see evidence. Every line I penned was a declaration against vanishing. My pain didn’t shatter me. It provided me with a voice—rough, fractured, and genuine. And I’m still here, writing, expressing truth through my broken teeth— alive, one difficult line at a time.