We walk, carrying maps  
etched in our marrow,  
streets we were never allowed to own  
pressed into our spines.  
Each footfall negotiates  
with air that would erase us,  
hands that would rewrite our story.  

Still, we rise,  
gathering ourselves  
from markets, 
classrooms even kitchens
a mosaic of resilience  
that refuses to fracture.  

Freedom is stitched between ribs,  
our silent courage  
speaking, breathing
also remembering.  

We name ourselves  
in places that deny our voice.  
We forge resistance  
in the spaces between chains.  

Even the night does not scare us  
as it shapes us.  

The buried voices
fill our lungs,  
guide our hands,  
teach our feet  
to dance past borders.  

We are not lost.  
We are not silenced.  
We are the archive of our bones  
the pulse that refuses to die.

Khayelihle Benghu is a poet and nurse based in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Poetry submissions to thursdaypoems@gmail.com