Battle-marked Ones
by Crystal Craig

Battle-marked ones—
I see you.

The soldier who carries names they dare not speak.
The child grown tall, still feeling shadows reach.
The partner who learned to breathe softly,
sensing storms before the thunder rolls.
The citizen betrayed by those sworn to shield.

We are many.
And we know one another.

See how we stand—
feet firm, silent,
not in fear,
but in readiness.

Eyes scanning,
not frantic, but aware—
marking exits,
measuring predators and prey,
the oppressors, the defenseless.

Our voices drip with honey.
Not to please.
To tame the ragers.
To charm. To distract.
Carving corridors for those who must run.

We do not waste breath on why.
We know the nature of this world.
And still—
we remain.

Rooted.
Unyielding.

Our bodies twitch sometimes—
sparks of memory,
scars humming with old fire.
Call it quirky.
Call it survival.
It lingers in our scent,
our stance,
the way we hold both stillness and storm.

Danger shifts,
and we shift with it.
Not to vanish.
To endure.

Each day, a victory.
Each breath, a quiet rebellion.

And sometimes—
we must rest.
Shelter.
Hold one another in calm.
Let the trembling settle.
Let wounds knit.
Then rise again—
steady and whole,
sharpened for what comes next.

We know the hierarchies.
The silent rules.
The delicate games
required to move through this world.

Yet we are not what was done to us.
Bent, yes. Twisted, perhaps.
Never broken.

We are beautiful because we remain.
Every scar, a map.
Every fracture, a vein of living steel.
The fires were our forge.

Now we rise—
not bowed,
not broken,
but sharpened.

Unstoppable.

And when the earth quakes beneath their feet,
they will know:

We were never prey.

We are the storm.
The protectors.
The reckoning.