They keep whispering in my ear while tapping my shoulder, saying, “You are strong.” Like it’s a compliment. Like it’s a badge I begged for.
But I never asked to be strong. I just ran out of choices.
Strength wasn’t a goal. It was what was left when sleep stopped working and prayers stopped answering.
They don’t see the strength it takes to pretend you're okay in a world that feeds on weakness like vultures. They don’t know how heavy it is to carry a name everyone expects to fail.
They think the mud means I fell. It doesn’t. It means I’ve been crawling longer than they’ve been watching.
You see a mess. I see motion.
You see a dropout. I see someone who shows up to every fight life throws at him, even bleeding.
Don’t mistake my silence for surrender. I talk less now— not because I’m weak, but because even my own voice started lying.
Every dream I spoke out loud got mocked, twisted, thrown back at me like a warning.
“You?” they laugh. “You don’t belong there. You’re from the wrong street. The wrong name. The wrong kind of blood.”
And I almost believed it. Almost.
Until I realized something: They only curse what they fear.
They saw something in me before I ever did. And it scared them.
It still does.
So I move, unrecognizable covered in dust but still moving.
Because even God formed man from the dust.
And if He’s still shaping me, then I’m not done yet.
This version of me? It’s not even the final draft.
Let me ask you something: What happens when the one you buried learns how to rise?
