You think you’re a masterpiece,
but you’re a mosaic of borrowed shards—
each piece a jagged edge
someone else bled to hold.

You stand tall,
but your spine is a ladder
built from the splintered bones
of the ones who climbed you out of your own grave.

You laugh now,
but your voice is a borrowed instrument,
tuned by hands that cracked their knuckles
on the strings of your silence.

You say you’re grateful,
but gratitude is a currency
you spend like monopoly money—
worthless in the...