They told us the body would break,
bones bending beneath the weight of the world,
but it was the soul that fractured first—
shattered beneath the light of a thousand screens.

Each scar, each bruise, a story untold,
etched deep where no healer can reach,
but survival, survival is an art,
a dance of grit and grief,
where tenderness and rage twist together,
creating a new anatomy—
an anatomy that does not forget
and refuses to be consumed.

We learned the language of hunger,
the taste of fear,
the bitter salt of betrayal.

We wore pain like a second skin,
stitched with the thread of defiance,
finding strength not in the muscles,
but in the marrow of our bones,
in the quiet spaces between breaths—
where the heart beats,
and still refuses to die.

Survival is not the absence of death,
but the way we are remade by it.

It is how we become
the very thing we were told would break.

How we bend,
how we bleed,
how we rise—

until nothing remains but the will to live,
and the faint, stubborn whisper

that we are more than this.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN.

2025
© ADONYSIAC ― IZIA™