The Shape of Survival

A raw poem exploring the heavy scars of survival and the journey to reclaim space.

“The Shape of Survival”


I wear my silence like a winter coat,
heavy in places no one can see.
Every stitched-up memory
hangs from my shoulders
like rain that never quite falls.


People love asking
why some hearts grow guarded,
as if bruises arrive without fingerprints,
as if storms don’t leave wreckage
long after the thunder is gone.


I have loved with open hands
only to watch people
take pieces of me
like souvenirs from a roadside shop,
careless and temporary.


Still—
there is something stubborn in me.
Something that refuses
to die quietly.


Maybe it’s the way flowers
push through cracked concrete,
or how the moon survives
even after being called broken
night after night.


I am learning
that survival is not beautiful.
It is messy hair, swollen eyes,
half-finished prayers,
and shaking hands reaching for tomorrow.


But survival is still survival.


And one day,
when my scars stop aching
like old songs on the radio,
I will become someone
who no longer apologizes
for taking up space.


Until then,
I will keep gathering the shattered parts,
keep building a softer version of myself
from all the things
meant to destroy me.