White sleeves, quiet hands,
a mouth that never trembles.
They painted me gentle,
something close to divine-
no cracks,
no storms.
Yet tears are salty,
not sweet.
And angels are imagination,
not reality.
No matter how I suffer,
how much I hide,
how much I suppress,
I remain human.
Humanity is a flaw
in the image they created for me-
one so treacherous
it’s almost tragic.
Sweetness is expected,
so I give them silence.
No tremor in my gaze,
no true emotion
in the melody my mouth exhales-
nothing that proves
my obvious humanity.
My image is a halo
painted on the devil,
so contradictory
it almost feels right-
Like a stain
on a pure white dress,
so faint it seems part of it-
Like a life meant to be lived,
yet reduced
to the fears
of an insecure teenager.
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 10:30 AM UTC
White sleeves, quiet hands,
a mouth that never trembles.
They painted me gentle,
something close to divine-
no cracks,
no storms.
Yet tears are salty,
not sweet.
And angels are imagination,
not reality.
No matter how I suffer,
how much I hide,
how much I suppress,
I remain human.
Humanity is a flaw
in the image they created for me-
one so treacherous
it’s almost tragic.
Sweetness is expected,
so I give them silence.
No tremor in my gaze,
no true emotion
in the melody my mouth exhales-
nothing that proves
my obvious humanity.
My image is a halo
painted on the devil,
so contradictory
it almost feels right-
Like a stain
on a pure white dress,
so faint it seems part of it-
Like a life meant to be lived,
yet reduced
to the fears
of an insecure teenager.
