i adore everyone's masterpiece;
awed by the metaphors they used,
the poetic lines they spilled,
and the emotions they cried
i adore all of it
but why can't i adore 
my own droplets of poems i wept?

staring at this blank paper
that may satiate its starving gaps
with my pain as viands
and my tears as water,
because hearing your beloved mother
be proud of someone else's daughter
was too bitter for me to savor

slashes of swords—
been echoing through the vastness of this landscape
as i tiptoed, a chilling wind embraced me
its coldness crept throughout my spine, and I heaved to release it

i hid myself behind this antique tower
i was enthralled at first, but i eventually realized it was an illusion radiating its power
i peeked, but i was shot by an arrow—
an arrow that entrapped me with hatred and sorrow

my fellow fairies were executed
by those who think they're gods
who have the right to slay anyone who hinders their path
but who in their right mind would think that's justifiable, huh?

i heard deafening screams echoing in my ears
i tried to hinder it with my hands, but it went through
now, there were a few swords pointed at me—
swords filled with fresh blood flowing through their sharp edges

wait, why didn't they all stop? their sword was piercing through my body
my splendid wings were tattered
i was the one who commanded them to ambush my fellow fairies
but why am i the one who's experienced the worst torture?