I call myself a beast, not because I have claws, but because every beautiful thing I touch seems to wilt before my eyes.
I never touch flowers.
Not because I hate their colors,but because they bloom with a tendernessmy hands were never taught to carry.
So I stand at a distance,watching petals converse with the wind,like old lovers exchanging secretsI was never meant to hear.
And rain...
I never truly touch the rain.
I let it fall through the spaces between my fingers,afraid that if I hold it too long,it might learn how broken I am.
The sky cries,the earth listens,and I remain somewhere in between—a stranger to both.
People think loneliness is silence.
It isn't.
Loneliness is watching a flower bloomand having nobody to tell how beautiful it is.
Loneliness is standing beneath a stormand feeling drier than the desert inside your chest.
Perhaps I am a beast after all.
A creature too rough for petals,too heavy for raindrops,too late for spring.
Yet every night,when the world folds itself into darkness,I still pray for impossible things—
for one flower that won't fear my touch,
for one rainstormthat will stay long enoughto wash the beast away.
And maybe then,
for the very first time,
I will discover
that I was never a beast at all. 🌧️🥀✨
