stop mode,🦥

Now sometimes they still call me “strange,” but the word no longer feels the same. I learned to build a home in what I lack, to stitch my wings together, piece by piece, intact. I don’t hide the cracks within my story, nor dress my past in borrowed glory. ’Cause everything that once brought me pain is now the strength that keeps me standing in the rain. If I was the one with borrowed dreams, now I walk my path by my own means, no permission, no fear, no disguise, just truths that no longer improvise. (I’m the strange one, the one who had nothing, the one with stories made from something, the worn-out guitar I held tight. I’m the strange one, the one who never fit, but in every crack I found a bit of a way to shine my light) And if they still call me “strange,” let them talk, it won’t rearrange what I’ve found deep inside my own— in the чужд, I never felt at home.