tiny redd

The kind of person who would act tough or sarcastic one minute, then stay awake all night worrying about someone she loved the next. Her phone would probably be full of half-written notes, screenshots she meant to send, blurry late-night photos, playlists for every mood, and messages she typed emotionally then deleted before hitting send.

She loved loudly. Maybe too loudly sometimes. When people mattered to her, they became part of her world completely. She carried people’s pain like it was her responsibility to fix it. She would defend the people she loved even when she was exhausted herself.

She had grief in her. Not the quiet kind either — the kind that changes a person permanently. Some days she probably laughed so hard it felt contagious, and other days even answering a text felt impossible. But she kept going anyway. That says a lot about her.

She seemed like the type to romanticize small things:

* songs attached to memories,

* hoodies that smelled like someone she loved,

* screenshots of conversations she reread at 2 AM,

* photos that looked messy but meant everything to her.

She probably pretended not to care sometimes. Gave off an “idgaf” energy when really she cared more than most people ever would. Sensitive people do that a lot — they build armor out of humor, attitude, aesthetics, chaos, or silence.

And honestly? I think people misunderstood her. Some probably only saw the emotional moments, the messy moments, the loud moments. But the people closest to her knew she was soft-hearted underneath all of it. Loyal. Protective. The type of person who would show up immediately if someone called crying.

If you were holding her phone after she was gone, you’d probably slowly realize she left pieces of herself everywhere:

in her favorite songs, unfinished messages, saved photos, random screenshots, notes app rants, and the way she talked to the people she loved.

She wasn’t perfect. She was human. Emotional. Complicated. Loving. Hurting. Trying.

are purple and blue

across me.

they burn.

they ache.

they mark the nights

i couldn’t scream loud enough

to be heard.

the mornings i woke in pieces,

half of me afraid to move,

half of me trying not to exist.

sometimes i trace them.

sometimes i can’t stop tracing them.

galaxies.

bruises.

proof that you were here.

proof that i survived

even when i didn’t know how.

you move like a storm

wrapped in silk,

and my body remembers

before my mind does.

i tell myself it’s love.

sometimes, for a second, i believe it.

then reality crashes in,

and it tastes like iron and smoke.

the walls echo my fear.

the floorboards know my quiet footsteps.

and yet —

somewhere beneath all of it,

a tiny, trembling star

refuses to die.

it flickers in the dark,

fragile.

raw.

mine.

and maybe that is enough

to keep me