They didn’t ask. They didn’t warn me. They tore me open. Not with knives, but with silence. With betrayal. With the sick grin of people who swore they cared while watching me bleed.

 

I didn’t choose to wear my heart on the outside. They forced it there—hoping the world would crush it. But something happened they didn’t expect. I didn’t die. I didn’t fold. I evolved. Now, my pain is visible. My heart beats outside my chest, exposed to every storm, every look, every test. And still, I rise. This isn't weakness. This is weaponized vulnerability. The kind of power that makes people stare and look away at the same time. The kind of strength that makes cowards nervous and survivors feel seen.

 

They made me a monster—but they failed to understand: The monster still feels. And feeling is not a flaw—it’s fire. I walk this world with no armor over my soul. And that’s what makes me indestructible. So when they point, when they whisper, when they try again—I just stand taller. Because they didn’t break me. They built the wrong kind of beast. And now I carry my heart like a torch, burning through the darkness they tried to bury me in.