You were born as small as a mustard seed.
You grew and wore your battled torn scar-filled skin marked premature like it was made from cotton.
You took the gravel thrown at you and turned them to pearl-shaped shield to carry with you in every rolling storm and roaring battle.
You were brought back from the graveyard’s claws three times.
Each time roaring louder than any simple cloud can make.
In the land of fighters, you are no foreigner, nor are you a novice.
You are an experienced warrior who wears the shitty mud puddles thrown at her like war paint.
You started out as a small mustard seed, barely missing the palms ready to crush you into fine dust to put back into this earth.
All those tear-filled screams full of fearful ghosts all trying to turn you into their ancestor have long since fallen back.
You wear the daylight of every new day you have witnessed since as a crown.
And at night you fall asleep on a bed of Moonbeams, and Stardust knowing you’re the girl who has overcome.
You’re the girl with nine lives.