How often are we labelled as victims by those who never truly understand our struggles? This poem is a response to the ones who dismiss our pain, wear false masks of care, and think they can break us. It's a declaration of resilience, showing that every wound only strengthens our voice.
You call me a victim, wear pity like a cloak,
As if my scars are a story you wrote.
Yes, I’ve been wounded, but I’m not weak—
Each cut, each tear, made my voice speak.
You claim to be a "good guy," parading your lies,
But I see through the hollow in your eyes.
You play with innocence, mock my pain,
Buying toys, taunting, thinking it's a game.
"Why haven’t you seen the world of lust?"
I navigate shadows; you feed on mistrust.
You measure love by the bodies you break,
While I rebuild from the ruins you make.
You say I don’t know love? Maybe you’re right—
I’ve fought to survive, clawing through the night.
But you, draped in deception, claim to care,
Then chase fleeting warmth in another’s stare.
You try to shame me, drag me to the floor,
But each word, each wound, makes my voice roar.
You won't break me; you make me more—
Stronger, louder, than ever before.
So, who’s really the victim here? The one who faces the scars with strength or the one who hides behind lies and fleeting pleasures? Every wound you inflict only makes me roar louder, stronger, and more defiant than ever before.
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