You made this. Look at me. Go ahead—take it all in. The scars, the hunch, the height that betrays me before I even speak. You think you know what you’re looking at, don’t you? You think you see the sum of all the little cruelties you dished out over the years. But let me tell you something: you don’t see the whole picture.

No, what you’re seeing is your handiwork, polished and sharpened into something you can’t even begin to comprehend. You thought you were breaking me, didn’t you? Every laugh, every sneer, every little jab you thought I wouldn’t notice. You thought those moments were fleeting, meaningless. But oh, how wrong you were.

You didn’t break me. You built me.

You didn’t just make scars; you made armor. Every word, every shove, every insult you so carelessly threw my way became another layer, another piece of the fortress I’ve constructed around myself. You thought you were tearing me down, but what you were really doing was handing me bricks. And I’ve been building ever since.

Now look at you. You can’t even meet my eyes. That little flicker of discomfort? That’s the weight of what you’ve done. But don’t misunderstand—I’m not angry. No, anger would mean you still have power over me, and let’s be clear: you don’t. What you’re feeling isn’t anger, or even guilt. It’s fear.

Fear that the person standing before you is no longer the one you mocked, the one you thought you had power over. Fear that I’ve turned everything you threw at me into something you can’t control. And you’re right to be afraid.

But here’s the twist: I’m not here to punish you. I’m not here to get even. That would imply we’re on the same playing field, and let’s face it—we’re not. You’re still stuck in the petty little world of your own making, while I’ve built something far greater.

Because I don’t need revenge. Revenge is cheap, fleeting, the kind of thing people like you cling to because you can’t imagine anything bigger. No, what I have is far more satisfying.

I have the discomfort you feel every time you see me, every time my name crosses your mind. I have the knowledge that you’ll spend the rest of your life grappling with the fact that you helped create something you can’t stand to face.

And you know what? I’m ok with it.

You wanted me to crumble. You wanted me to shrink, to fade, to become small enough to fit into the box you built for me. But I didn’t. I grew. I adapted. I became the thing you hate most: undeniable.

Because every time you tried to tear me down, you showed me exactly who I didn’t want to be. You gave me the blueprint for everything I’ve built—the mask, the control, the precision. You made me sharp because you gave me no other choice.

So here I am. A reflection of everything you tried to destroy, standing tall—or as tall as this crooked body will allow—reminding you of what you’ve done.

But don’t misunderstand. I’m not bitter. No, bitterness is a luxury for those who lose, and I don’t lose. I take what I’m given, and I make it mine. And you? You gave me everything I needed to become this.

So thank you. Thank you for the scars, for the insecurities, for the lessons in exactly how not to be. Thank you for the bricks I’ve turned into a fortress, the tools I’ve sharpened into weapons. Thank you for creating something you’ll never be able to undo.

You made this. And I’m ok with it. More than ok—I thrive on it.

So, take a good look. Because every time you see me, every time you think of me, you’ll remember. You’ll remember what you did. And you’ll know that while you were busy trying to break me, I was building something you can never hope to touch.

Not a victim. Not a god. But competition & a defender.