You bloom like a wildfire  
all crackling laughter and unfiltered light  
while they clutch their shadows like prayer beads,  
counting each spark as a sin.  

You reach, they recoil:  
a dance of magnets flipped wrong.  
Your hands (open, trembling)  
become grenades in their story.  

They speak in riddles of blame—  
'Your joy is too loud',  
'Your love is a flood',  
'Your silence? A storm.'  

You learn to shrink your sun,  
to whisper in asterisks,  
to love in the shallowest breaths—  
still, they salt the earth where you stand.  

'Too much', they hiss, when you bleed,  
'Too little', when you scar.  
You map their chaos like a tongue  
learning the taste of broken glass.  

In the end, you are both sculptor and stone—  
carving yourself into hollows  
to hold their not-enoughs,  
while they etch their wounds onto your spine.  

Let them crown you villain.  
Let them drown in their own narrative.  
You were never the anchor  
meant to sink with their ship.  

For the villain they made you
Wear their crown of thorns, but know:
every petal they crushed
still hums your name in the dirt.
Let them call you hurricane-
you were born to reshape shores.

Walk, love.  
Even phoenixes must ash  
before they can rise.