🥀 The Curse I Became — 🦋 and the ruins I left behind
When she starts to curse me, it’s not the daggers I see fall,
Each word not a wound, each whisper not a call.
For me, I am just trying to light up my dream,
Following the path that I self esteem.
But slowly her voice turns a storm in the skies,
It cuts through my soul, it bleeds through my eyes.
The silence grows heavy, the air starts to sting,
Her curses take flight on a black-feathered wing.
They linger like fire that burns in the night,
A wound with no healing, a scar out of sight.
I am no longer what I used to be,
Her curses have carved their mark into me.
The dreams I once held have withered away,
Like petals that fade in the cold of decay.
She took me apart with each venomous word,
A silence that screamed, a pain left unheard.
Slowly she stripped all the light I could see,
A thief in the dark unmaking my plea for a fee.
Yet deep in the ruin, a whisper survives,
A spark in the ashes, a soul that still strives.
For wounds may remind me of where I have bled,
But scars are the proof that I rise where she’s tread.
I am no longer what I used to be — it’s blurred,
But stronger I stand in the wreckage of her, still coloured.
#thought
Actually, I was the curse that walked into her life—the shadow at the edge of her light. The way I met her, the way I knew her, the way I described her, and the way I found myself through her. Some wounds cut deeper than skin, and curses leave scars unseen, yet even in the breaking, resilience rises—not to discover the curse, but to defy it. Curses wound and scars remain, but they do not define the end; they become reminders that even in ruin, strength can rebuild what the curse tried to erase. Even in the wreckage, colours survive—not because the curse left them, but because it could not take them. And in that survival, a strength carries forward, waiting to be claimed. Sometimes pain may strip us down, but it cannot erase the hues of what we have lived, nor the strength that rises from what survives.