Drip
Drip.
No water needed.
You cry in colour now.
Grief mixed with pigment—your palette was pain.

Each smile a map, each line a trail,
Etched softly on the skin's embrace.
A journey marked in fine detail,
The story written on your face.

The laugh that danced around the eyes
Still lingers in a softened fold,
A map of moments, lows and highs,
A quiet story, gently told.

Not every crease was born from pain,
Some stem from joy that overflowed.
Expressions that we can't restrain,
Emotions that our hearts bestowed.

So wear these lines with quiet pride,
They are the footprints of your days.
A testament to life applied,
A living poem on your face’s page.

I got the answers right.
Eventually.
Just didn't breathe while doing them.

Told Dad I felt like drowning.
He told me I just needed to practice.
I do. That's why it hurts.

They always finish first.
Every time.
I pretend to check my work,
In reality, I didn't start.

Back home, I was meant to revise.
Instead I tapped my pencil into the wall.
Created a mark.
Decided to keep it. It felt true.

Got 92%.
Finally. Something to be proud about.
"You could've hit 95."
Dad smiled—he was 'proud.'
It was almost impossible to believe.
So it still stung.
Felt the familiar gnaw in my ribs.

He would probably love the boy in my class as a son.
I bet they'd enjoy studying.
Without the tears and shouting.
Without butchered expectations.

I needed help.
Didn't want to shatter his expectations again.
I almost cried,
But the room stayed the same.

I realized it wasn't ever about math.

do you know the weight of it?
clawing your way up
test after test,
year after year,
to be the perfect reflection of the dreams they have for you,
those that are now your own.
where your worth now hangs.

when they see the prize,
they say, 'oh it comes so easily to her'

Easily?

i bled for this.
i screamt for this.
and my mind?
it whispers
'this is just what you're supposed to do'
you are 'gifted'
its your mere responsibility.
nothing to celebrate. nothing special.

isnt it?