I'm different—
I get it.
I don’t speak the way you do,
I eat diversity for breakfast,
I don’t act like your mirror.

But I’m human.
Equally important.
Equally supreme.

Give it a rest—
I demand order.
I demand respect.
I should be treated as such.

I don’t wear inferiority
Like a badge I didn’t earn.
I won’t sit with minds
That think I’m beneath them—
When we all know
I’m the opposite.

You judge my roots
Like they shame me—
But they feed me.
They bloom strength
You’ve only ever tried to steal.

It’s a joke to you—
But my kind don’t spend their days
Belittling you.
They have positive change
They need to make
With their time.

To extricate myself from thoughts
That drown me—
Isn’t harm.
It’s healing.
It’s clear water.

Where I grow
Is not your prison of fear.
It’s the place
They wish they belonged—
Because I carry
What they could never hold.

As messed up as it is,
I like the overbearing kind—
The ones who shadow me like breath,
Their weight, my unexpected muse.

Attention—
Always on my back,
A strange comfort
Like pressure that says I see you.

It’s weird, I know.
But when we’re not connected,
I unravel.
No deal.
No spark.

I don’t know how to care for myself.
But someone else who figures it out—
They hold my key.
Not in chains,
But in knowing.

And when I’m quiet,
Not hyping you,
Not clinging to your orbit—
I’ve already let go.
You’re not my safe space.

But if I smother,
If I breathe you in like air too close—
It means you’re human to me,
Just like the rest.
Not sacred.
Not mine.

Only real.
Only fading.

Silence is the best—
For disappointment’s sting,
For happiness that blooms unseen,
For quiet, steady success.

Cricket songs—my only need,
Soft-spoken wings in midnight air.
They comfort more than crowded cheers,
Airy whispers, gently rare.

Not the noise that claws and clings,
Not the voices filling space—
They try to mend a hollow place
But only deepen everything.

And in the hush,
Judgment fades—
Its echo lost,
Its edge decays.

I walked into the bathroom —
white walls, white tiles, stillness wrapped in gloss.
But there it lay — a maroon button,
startling in its defiance.

It shouldn’t have been there.
Yet, it was.
Out of place.
Unmissable.

The world is like that, isn’t it?
A stark room of sameness,
where anything different is questioned —
pressed into hiding, or tossed away.

To be maroon in a whitewashed world
is to ache with knowing,
to dim your light
just to blend into beige.

But difference is not disorder.
Still — it wounds.
It carves at joy
with invisible hands.

I’ve known that slicing.
Felt it
in my voice, my rhythm,
my stubborn dreams.

It’s a roller coaster —
screws loose, rails screeching,
but my fingers are beginning to grip.
My breath is learning to stay.

I may not match the walls,
but I am the button —
fallen, yes.
But vivid.
Undeniably real.

I know—it’s the worst crime
against oneself.
It shouldn’t be an option.
But still, I find myself
wondering…
Should I?

I breathe
for the giver of my life,
because this life—
it isn’t mine alone.
It’s yours too.

But I’m weak.
I want to stop.
Not like you—
not strong, not shining.
I’ve held on
so long
my eyes forgot
how to glisten.

I can’t complain.
I won’t.

So I’ll stop—
even if just
for hours,
days,
a week…
just to feel
less.

I just had an epiphany—
I can never love another
and still love myself.
The two split me like fault lines,
pulling in opposite truths.

It’s either I let one go—
or lose the other.

The way I do things
gets knotted in translation.
My colours shift like a chameleon,
but in my mirror,
it’s just plain grey.

I’m human, I think—
but meticulous,
a mirror to your flame.
I give what I get,
nothing less.

You are not utensil,
or tool.
I’ll only use you
if you gave me no choice.

Still,
I’d rather melt my ice
than let it burn you.

Aloneness?
That's no stranger.
It’s the oldest room in my soul,
quiet, bare—
but safe.

Bland isn't always bad.
Sometimes, it's peace.
Sometimes, it's me.

Don’t go—
even if life feels worse than a beast’s,
even if breath burns like betrayal.
Hold on.
Hold on tight.

I’ve been holding on—
through storms without names,
through nights that swallow light.

But what comes after?
Is freedom ever certain?
I ask the silence
and it only echoes me.

Still, I slip sometimes.
Carve questions on my skin—
my body, now a lab
of wounds, of want,
of nothing.

Yet still…
still I hold on.

I guess I will—
until the rope
decides
to snap
on its own.