Hate learned my name before I learned my own,

It whispered certainty where doubt lived.

I clenched it like a weapon,

Mistaking noise for power,

Mistaking anger for strength.

I became fixated—

Eyes locked on wounds that refused to close,

Counting every slight like sacred numbers,

Letting sorrow build a throne in my chest

And call itself king.

Sorrow is quiet but endless.

It does not scream like hate—

It sits beside you,

Teaches you how to breathe in pain

Until pain feels like knowledge.

And knowledge is dangerous.

It sharpens the mind,

Turns questions into mirrors,

Shows you the truth you tried to outrun:

Power is not domination—

It is survival with awareness.

Real power is choosing not to rot.

It is standing upright

While your heart still trembles.

It is knowing the weight of hate

And refusing to let it own your hands.

Support arrives without armor.

A voice.

A presence.

A reminder that you are more

Than what hurt you,

More than what you lost.

So I loosen my grip on hatred,

Let sorrow speak but not command,

Carry knowledge like a lamp, not a blade.

I fixate now on becoming—

On power that heals,

And support that keeps me human.