So I grew sideways.
Bloomed in alleys,
under neon,
behind velvet curtains and whispered names.

I stitched myself together
with safety pins and spit,
painted truth across my face
so loud it became camouflage.

They called it rebellion.
As if survival was a choice.

I learned the quiet art of vanishing
in rooms that demanded I shrink.
They do not see me,
not really.
Only the outline
of what they fear.

But still, I exist
in backrooms and basements,
in stolen eyeliner
and borrowed boots.
Dancing like I’m shaking off extinction.

I am what remains
when erasure fails.

When a body refuses to forget
how to take up space.
When they finally notice,
and see the beauty,
in the scars,
they carved.

They never made room for me.
So I carved a shape they could not name
and stayed.