You say my name like it’s a curse,
like it’s a knife you’re twisting into the dirt,
like it’s a grenade you’re pulling the pin from,
hoping it’ll blow me apart.
But I’ve been here before—
standing in the wreckage of your words,
picking shrapnel out of my skin,
stitching myself back together
with threads of defiance.

Your voice is a storm,
but I am the mountain.
Your bitterness is a flood,
but I am the ark.
You can’t drown me in the venom
you spit like a cobra,
because I’ve built a wall of happiness
brick by brick,
and it’s taller than your rage.

I won’t spit your...