​I am the one who walked through the fire, The one the darkness tried to claim. I lived through years of the tightening grip, And the cruelty that had no name. Domestic war is a silent war, Fought behind a locked-shut door, Where I learned to breathe in the middle of wreckage And survive what no soul is intended for. ​They tried to break my will to powder, To keep me small, to keep me still, But the fire of survival burned much hotter Than the shadow of their jagged will. I am a survivor—not by chance, But by a choice to finally run, To pull my spirit from the teeth of the wolf And find my place beneath the sun. ​But the cost of the exit was a heavy toll, A debt that leaves the spirit thin— I carried the weight of my own escape While losing sixteen of my kin. Sixteen angels, bright and gold, Torn away by the hands of hate, The collateral of a monster’s path, Leaving me to bear this weight. ​I survived the hand that struck the blow, I survived the words that cut like glass, But now I carry sixteen lives In every hour and day that pass. I am the voice for the ones gone silent, The living proof that the light remains, A testament to a heart that beats Despite the trauma and the chains. ​My survival is an act of defiance, A sacred "no" to the violence I knew; I honor the sixteen with every breath, Doing the work they cannot do. I am the survivor, the witness, the wall, Between the nightmare and the day— Living for sixteen, and living for me, Finding a brand new way.