wild

I was walking and angry when I saw her

A tiny flower growing between stones, in a place that seemed nothing like her

Or perhaps exactly like her?

At first, I thought she was lost

Then I wondered

What if she chose this place?

Had she bloomed among a thousand flowers, I might never have noticed her

Whenever my markers dry I find myself searching for orange and somehow, it’s always there

It reminds me of the people who never leave yet are often overlooked

I’ve been unfair to orange I kept drawing it into things that never suited it simply because it didn’t belong to a single frame Orange was never meant to fit inside a shape or be just an orange

You reached for my hand to help me stand but I stood up on my own

Was it disgusted scene? no Was it because I hated physical touching? never

Because my hands were sweaty ( I hate summer ) Or maybe… it was just my shyness ( I hate it also )

Oh Lucy

And Ik how hard this step is for someone with a heart as sensitive as yours

I’m not used to people staying in my life… it feels strange But when it comes to my heart? It’s a living archive for everyone who’s ever crossed my path

I feel like the right person wouldn’t make me want to leave, but I still get unsure about being something permanent in someone’s life

As Sexton once said, “She is solid. As for me, I am watercolor. I wash off.”

The good thing about always being ready to leave is that I don’t belong anywhere, and I kind of love that, I love my freedom

- Tuesday with Morrie

I’ve encountered many people in my life who seemed to carry a quiet, unexplained hatred toward me. Not because of something I did, but simply because I was there, being myself. Hatred, in itself isn’t rare, many people carry it silently in their hearts but they didn’t keep theirs there. Somehow, it always found its way to me

My personality unsettled them They tried, in their own ways to reshape it, as if difference were a flaw that needed correction Yet the unspoken truth "the one I’ve tried to explain more than once" is that what provoked them in me was never truly me. It was something within themselves, a quiet insecurity stirred by what they couldn’t understand or control

I’ve always been a kind person, trying to explain their insecurities to them, hoping they’d see the truth. Yet I realize now, it is my very truth that seems to have closed their minds to believing me

And sometimes I find myself wondering, not with anger but with genuine confusion: what exactly do you expect me to do about it? What can anyone possibly do with a hatred they never created?

So I did the only thing I could, I remained exactly who I was. And somehow, that alone seemed to bother them the most.

Later, I notice the girl with the amazing hair does the same. An unspoken rhythm slowly connects us, she taps her fingers, and I mirror her.

We synced without a single word, on the same rhythm and the same habits, her presence makes the space feel warmer.

For the first time, I feel like I belong

Thank you, cool girl.