Always Rallying
The world knocks me down
with the weight of its storms,
and still—
I gather the scattered pieces,
stitch myself together
with trembling hands.
Every fall leaves bruises,
every silence a scar,
yet I rise
with the stubborn rhythm
of a heartbeat
that refuses surrender.
I am not made of steel—
I bend, I break, I bleed—
but each time
I learn the language of return:
how to stand again,
how to carry forward
the fragile flame of myself.
Always rallying,
always reaching,
always whispering:
I will not be erased.
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