she told me to cover up the scars.
i told her
no one ever noticed.

she said that couldn’t be true.
but it was.

no one gasped.
no one asked.
they just looked through me,
like pain’s not real
unless it begs.

she says she doesn’t understand.
says i have no trauma.
i guess sadness needs a villain
to be taken seriously.

but what if i’m the villain?
what if the hurt
comes from me?
what if i broke myself
before anyone had the chance to?

what if no one saw
because
they never looked?

i called you
when texting felt too heavy,
too many words stuck inside.

you picked up.

i tried to hide the tears,
soft breaths breaking through,
hoping you wouldn’t hear
the weight in my voice.

and still, you stayed.

i was told to open up,
so i did,
just a little.
i peeled back the corner
of something i’d kept quiet
for years.
they smiled,
tilted their head,
asked how long
i’d been “thinking wrong.”
wrong.
as if thoughts were math problems
with a single right answer.
as if feeling too much
is something to be fixed.
they say it’s distorted.
and it’s irrational.
like maybe
if i rewired my brain
to sound more like theirs,
i’d finally be okay.
but this is the only voice
i’ve ever had.
and when it shakes,
when it breaks,
when it screams,
it’s still mine.
they don’t get to label that
a symptom.
if the way i think is wrong,
and the way i feel is worse,
i guess i’m broken, then.

we’ve left pieces of ourselves
in too many pages already
but june is blank
and maybe this time,
we write something worth keeping

purple was always mine.
marker stains on busy hands,
birthday balloons, beaded bracelets,
the crayon worn down first.

i said it was my favorite
without knowing why,
just that it made my heart full,
even when nothing else did.

then one day,
it showed up in your eyes.

not the color,
but the feeling.

the way you speak softly
when i’m unraveling.
the way you remember
what i forget to say out loud.

maybe that’s why i loved purple first.
so i’d know what to do with you.

so i wouldn’t be scared
of something that beautiful.