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.