Poetic Tea

The Balance We Keep

 

She is the river, flowing deep with knowing,

he is the mountain, standing tall, unshaken.

She carries stories in the waters, whispering truths that slip between fingers but sink into spirit.

He listens, rooted, his bones made of stone,

his breath the wind that calls her name.

 

They say a woman’s highest calling

is to guide a man to his soul—

but his soul was never lost, only quiet.

Like embers beneath the ashes,

waiting for the breath of an old song,

a voice that sings his name back to him.

 

They say a man’s highest calling

is to shield a woman from harm—

but her skin is lined with the maps

of every journey her grandmothers walked.

She does not need a shield; she needs a circle,

a fire where she can warm her hands

without fear of being burned.

 

We are not halves seeking to be whole,

not burdens meant to carry one another—

we are the land and the sky,

the drum and the heartbeat,

the cedar and the smoke.

Separate, we exist. Together, we rise.

 

So let him lead, and she will follow.

Let him protect, and she will stand.

Not because we are weak,

but because we are strong—

because balance is the language of the earth,

and love is the first medicine.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

The Truce Between Heart and Mind

 

I have been the collateral damage

in wars I never waged,

a casualty of battles fought

behind someone else’s ribs.

 

My heart, ever the dreamer, whispers:

"Trust—see the light in them."

But my mind, weary from war, warns:

"Be careful, remember the scars."

 

I have a gift, or maybe a curse—

to see the best in the broken,

to love past the fractures,

to believe in redemption

even when history begs me not to.

 

I have given chances

like lifelines to those drowning,

hoping their goodness would rise

stronger than their storms.

But some seas only know how to pull you under.

 

Still, my heart will always fight

to heal, to hold, to hope—

while my mind will always trace

the wounds left behind.

 

And yet, between them,

there is a truce forming,

a fragile but fierce understanding—

that I can love without losing myself,

that I can trust and still be wise,

that I can honor my softness

without surrendering my strength.

 

Because I am both—

vulnerable and resilient,

a healer with guarded hands,

a warrior with an open heart.

 

And within that balance,

I am learning how to stay whole.

 © 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Miiskwaankajiig (Red Sky)

 

Beneath the endless stretch of sky, painted in hues of fire and dusk,

two souls walk the path of my life, woven into my spirit like threads of fate.

One, a guide, a sister, a voice that echoes through time,

her wisdom shaping the woman I am, her laughter a shelter in storms.

She is the steady drumbeat, the song that carries me home.

The other, a warrior with fire in his veins,

a father, a creator, a man whose presence stirs the embers in my soul.

He arrived like a whisper on the wind, familiar as a dream half-remembered,

yet his footsteps leave imprints too deep to fade.

Miiskwaankajiig—Red Sky—

not just a name, but a gift from the Universe, wrapped in human form.

One, my anchor. One, my storm.

Both, a blessing I will never take for granted.

 © 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

What I Need

 

If you want to know me, really know me, don’t just skim the surface of who I am. Open me like a book—carefully, intentionally, and with purpose. I need you to take your time, let your fingers linger on my pages, and read every word as if it holds a secret meant only for you.

Pay attention to the details—every chapter, every punctuation mark. Don’t rush. Savor me. Read me over and over, not because you don’t understand, but because you can’t get enough. Let my story captivate you, let it leave its mark on your soul.

I need you to be the kind of person who reads deeply, who craves connection over convenience. Someone who can hold the weight of my words, who doesn’t flinch at my truths, and who wants to know every chapter, even the ones I try to keep hidden.

This is what I need from the next person who even wants to try—read me fully, completely, endlessly. Otherwise, don’t bother opening the cover.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Not Today, Satan

 

Not today, Satan—

your words, sharp as broken glass,

used to slice my soul,

but now, they shatter on the armor I’ve grown.

You wove lies like spider silk,

spun your web of deceit,

and for a decade, I was the fly.

 

Your accusations were mirrors,

twisting your sins into mine.

Gaslit nights turned to ashen mornings—

I believed the flames were my fault.

You’re the arsonist,

but I’m the phoenix,

and I’ve risen from the smoke you tried to choke me with.

 

Your narcissism wore a crown of false charm,

a kingdom built on manipulation and fear.

You ruled with a silver tongue and fists of denial,

but I see the cracks in your throne now.

I see you.

A hollow man,

filled with echoes of your own delusions.

 

No more.

I won’t play your game,

won’t dance on your stage,

won’t bow to your whims.

Your toxicity won’t spill into my lungs—

I’m breathing my own truth now.

 

You can keep your lies,

your blame,

your twisted realities.

I’m not the fool who will validate your broken reflection.

 

The last decade?

It’s my scar, not my chain.

It’s my regret,

but also my lesson.

I own it,

but I refuse to live in it.

 

Not today, Satan.

Not ever again.

I’m not your fly,

and you are no king.

I walk away,

my truth in my hands,

and you—

you can drown in your own delusions.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Poison & Power

 

I never needed his poison to make me feel small—

My mind did that all on its own.

He just sped up the process.

 

I saw his face in an old picture,

And suddenly, the walls closed in.

Suffocating.

Pressing.

Pushing me to find shelter

In the only place I knew—

The edge of a ledge,

The bottom of a bottle.

 

Anxiety gives me my own set of demons.

They claw at my skin, whisper doubt in my ears.

Insecure, he called me.

Immature. Stupid. Replaceable.

 

As if I chose to be wounded by his words.

As if I asked to be crushed beneath his betrayal.

What he did in the dark,

While I stood in the light, unaware.

There was no consent when he broke my mind.

No permission when he unraveled my sanity,

Thread by thread,

Until nothing of me remained intact.

 

I remember—

We parted hating each other.

But he never let me go.

He kept spinning stories, twisting truths,

Dripping poison into ears that once held my name with love.

Until they forgot who tore us apart.

 

That was then.

Three years later, the demons still creep in.

They pull at my hair, pinch my toes,

Hiss their lies between my fingers,

Even when I cover my ears with shaking hands.

 

But—

The ledge is gone.

The liquor, just a ghost.

And when I see his face in old memories,

The walls stand strong.

 

The other night, a shooting star streaked across my sky,

Burst into light,

Scattering love into the person I have become.

Washing away the last traces of his poison.

 

So let him stand there.

Head high, arrogance thick in his veins.

Let the lies spill from his lips like venom.

Let him try to pierce me again—

Try to leave me bleeding on the floor.

 

But he won’t win.

I won’t run.

I have battled the demons that were him.

And now, I have returned—stronger.

 

And he?

He no longer haunts me.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Second Chances

 

Once, I believed in endless chances.

Thought forgiveness was a virtue,

a strength that would carry me—

and them—

to something better.

I thought if I poured enough love,

enough trust,

enough hope,

into broken hands,

they’d learn how to hold me without breaking me.

 

But broken hands only learn

how to shatter what they touch.

And the more chances I gave,

the more pieces of myself I lost.

Forgiveness became a cycle,

a game I didn’t know I was playing,

where the rules were simple:

They take.

I hurt.

They win.

 

Now, I still believe in second chances.

Because we’re human.

We fall.

We fail.

We fumble the things we care about most.

And accountability—

that rare, sacred thing—

deserves its moment.

A sincere apology,

a willingness to change—

these are the keys to redemption.

But the door only opens once.

 

Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice, shame on me.

But there is no third strike.

There is no "maybe next time."

No more "I’ll give them another chance."

Because the last time I gave endless chances,

I ran out of pieces to give.

 

It wasn’t always this way.

I used to be a well of forgiveness,

overflowing with hope that people could change.

But I learned the hard way—

you can’t save someone

who doesn’t want to be saved.

And every time I lowered my boundaries,

I was drowning myself

in the waves they created.

 

So now, my line is clear.

A second chance is a gift,

not a guarantee.

You get one shot to show me

you value what’s in your hands.

Burn me again, and I’m gone—

not from hate,

not from anger,

but from love.

For me.

 

Because I’m done being the one

who breaks to make others whole.

I’m done teaching myself

that my peace is less important

than someone else’s comfort.

 

Second chances are grace,

but third strikes?

That’s self-sabotage.

 

And I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Spectator to the Game

 

I watch my girlfriends pour themselves into hope,

shaking hands with vulnerability like it’s a dangerous stranger,

braving the roulette wheel of modern love.

They swipe right,

he texts back,

and for a moment, the world feels lighter.

For a moment, they believe this one might stay.

 

But then—

he vanishes.

Leaves them staring at an empty inbox

and the hollow echo of “I’ll call you later.”

They sit with their hearts in their hands,

trying to piece together the puzzle of why men

treat love like a game

and women like the prize you discard

when the novelty wears off.

 

They laugh it off,

say, “I’m fine,”

but I see the cracks forming in their resolve.

I see the bitterness creeping into their voices

as they joke about men being “all the same.”

Not because they want to believe it—

but because the evidence piles higher

every time one of you ghosts.

 

You act like love is a sport,

as if the prize is in how fast you can score

and vanish before the final whistle blows.

You show up with sweet words

and borrowed promises,

distract them with the shine of possibility,

and then leave—

like cowards.

 

And you wonder why women are jaded.

Why they stop trusting the warmth of your smile,

why they hold their hearts like weapons,

blade first,

because every time they soften,

someone like you

takes the softness

and leaves them bleeding.

 

These aren’t just girls.

These are women who deserve poems,

songs, cathedrals built in their honor.

And yet, you crumble their faith

like a discarded paper plane.

You call them “bitter,”

but bitterness is just heartbreak

left too long in the dark.

Bitterness is love’s ghost—

it lingers when the living refuse to honor the dead.

 

So here’s a thought:

Next time you swipe,

next time you smile and say all the right things,

ask yourself—

do you mean it?

Because I’m tired of watching these women

carry the weight of your cowardice,

the scars of your silence,

while you walk away unscathed.

 

This isn’t a game.

And these women?

They’re not playing anymore.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Phoenix

I was born in fire,

Ashes clinging to my skin like memories I can’t shake.

Life didn’t offer me wings—

I had to forge them from the ruins of everything I’ve lost.

They call me strong, but strength isn’t given.

It’s built, piece by jagged piece,

In the crucible of heartbreak,

On the anvil of a soul that refuses to stay shattered.

 

I’ve burned before—

Oh, how I’ve burned.

Flames licking at my edges,

Smoke filling my lungs until I couldn’t breathe.

The world has tried to consume me,

Tried to bury me beneath the rubble of my failures,

But the thing about fire is,

It doesn’t destroy me—it sets me free.

 

Broken? Yes.

But broken things cut the deepest.

And I’ve learned to wield my scars

Like weapons of a warrior who’s danced with death

And lived to tell the story.

I don’t rise because I want to—I rise because I must.

The ashes beneath my feet are not my grave;

They are my rebirth.

 

I am the phoenix.

The one who burns, who falls,

Who dies a hundred times in the agony of becoming.

But every time, I rise.

Not softer, not quieter—

But sharper, brighter, more dangerous than before.

Because nothing is more terrifying than a soul

That has learned it cannot be destroyed.

 

I wear my pain like a crown,

My flames like armor.

And when I spread my wings,

The world trembles.

Because they don’t know what to do with a woman

Who has turned every heartbreak into fire,

Every failure into flight.

 

So let me burn—

Let me fall and crumble and become dust.

Because I’ll rise again,

And this time, I won’t just soar—I’ll set the sky ablaze.

I am the phoenix.

And the ashes?

They’re mine to command.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Ghosting

Where are you now?

When she built a home for your words in the hollow of her chest,

when she turned her heart into a soft landing for the weight of your dreams.

She believed you,

because you told her she could.

You said she was the sun,

and she burned brighter every time you whispered her name.

You said she was enough,

and her scars became constellations,

tracing the map of how you made her feel seen.

 

But where are you now?

Silent.

A ghost haunting the corners of her mind,

a phantom ache in a room that once held your laughter.

You slipped away like smoke through her fingers,

left her clutching at air

and calling your name into the void

that you created.

 

She checks her phone at 3am,

because you taught her to expect you there.

She stares at the last text you sent,

rewinding the reel of your words,

wondering where she went wrong.

But it wasn’t her.

It was you.

 

Ghosting isn’t a disappearing act—

it’s cowardice dressed in shadows.

It’s the refusal to hold up the mirror

and face the reflection of what you’ve done.

You made her believe she mattered,

then vanished as if her existence was an inconvenience.

 

How pathetic,

to wield love like a trick

and disappear when it no longer amuses you.

How small,

to crumble under the weight of honesty,

to leave someone in the ruins of a story

you promised to finish together.

 

But let me tell you this:

she will rise.

The ghost you left behind will fade,

and she will write a new story without you in it.

She will build her own cathedral of truth and tenderness,

and you will be nothing more

than a lesson she learned too late.

 

So where are you now?

Gone.

And she—

she is finally free.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Together

I don’t need you to save me.

I’ve stitched my own wounds with threads of resilience,

carved my survival out of chaos,

and walked through fire barefoot just to prove I could.

I don’t need you to fix me.

I’ve seen the broken pieces of my soul,

collected them like shards of glass,

and bled enough to know the value of healing.

 

And I don’t need you to complete me.

I am not half a person,

not a jigsaw puzzle with missing edges

or a book with torn-out pages.

I am whole in my flaws,

complete in my imperfection,

and full in my being.

 

But what I want—

What I crave—

is a partner in this fight.

 

Stand beside me,

not ahead to pull me,

not behind to push me,

but here, shoulder to shoulder,

where the ground is cracked and uneven.

 

When the storms rage and the world spits fire,

stand with me.

When the nights stretch long

and the silence grows heavy,

stay with me.

When my hands shake

and my voice falters,

reach for me, not to carry me

but to remind me I’m not alone.

 

Because it’s not about fixing,

or saving,

or completing.

It’s about choosing,

every day,

to hold your ground with me

no matter how hard the battle gets.

 

So, let’s fight—together.

Not because we have to,

but because we want to.

Because love isn’t about perfection;

it’s about persistence.

It’s about staying when the cracks show,

when the shadows creep in,

and when the world says, “Give up.”

 

We’ll fight—not against each other,

but for us.

We’ll stand—not as saviors or savants,

but as warriors.

And no matter how hard things get,

we’ll look the chaos in the eye

and say,

"We're still here. Together."

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Raw Deal

Truth is a liar,

Fiction feels real.

The deck’s been stacked,

I got the raw deal.

 

Logic makes no sense,

Confusion feels good—

How do I stop it?

I’m not sure I would.

 

Because love is a gamble,

And fear is my shield.

I’ve walked through the fire,

I’m not sure I’ve healed.

 

I’ve built these walls,

Brick by brick, stone by stone.

Not to keep others out—

But to keep me alone.

 

Abandonment whispers,

“You’ll never be enough.”

Insecurity laughs,

“Love? You’re not that tough.”

 

But how do I trust,

When the past left me burned?

How do I open,

When the lesson was learned?

 

Fear holds my hand,

And whispers in my ear,

“Let them close,

And they’ll all disappear.”

 

Still, some part of me wonders,

If the risk is worth the fall—

If love could break through

And tear down it all.

 

But for now, I linger,

Caught in this deal,

Where fear becomes comfort,

And love feels unreal.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Don’t Stress the Could-Haves

Don’t stress the could haves,

those whispering ghosts of possibility,

haunting your midnight thoughts,

a chorus of "maybe,"

a symphony of "what if."

 

If it should have,

it would have.

Like rivers carving canyons,

the universe moves as it must,

each moment falling into place

exactly as it was destined to.

 

Could the rain argue with the clouds?

Could the stars demand a different sky?

No.

And neither can we rewrite

what was never meant to be.

 

The could haves are thieves,

robbing your now,

pawning your peace for scraps of regret.

But listen—

the should haves are quieter,

because they know:

if they should have,

they would have.

 

So let the winds blow,

let the tides rise,

and let the could haves drift away.

What remains is solid,

what remains is truth.

 

Trust in the weight of the world’s hands,

how they sculpt your path

without asking for permission.

There’s no need to stress

what never was,

because if it was meant to be,

it would already be yours.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶 

Shattered

Have you ever

stared at your reflection

for hours, picking

out everything

that’s wrong

all the spots

and blemishes the

dark rings

and cracked lips?

Have you ever

stared at your reflection

increasingly saddened by

what you see, the

unclear skin

and scarred features?

Have you ever

wished so

hard that all that

prodding and poking, all

those tears and

money spent on makeup

would actually do something?

But when you

stare at yourself all

dolled up, ready to face

the world, really you’re

just that same face

scared to look and

scared to take your eyes away.

Have you ever

stared at your reflection

wishing the mirror would

shatter, and you

along with it?

 

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Phobia

Walk down the streets and find

a thousand ways to suffer.

Strangers, heights, conversation,

Enclosed spaces, open spaces,

it wouldn’t kill me to try to face them

but the phobias set in, engraved.

I only think I am going to die,

it’s all in the mind when I look back,

but in the moment the logic just

disappears, overrun by irrational

fears that never do make sense.

Some fears are rational; results

of experiences that have stuck

in my mind as a reminder of what

I need to avoid to live:

Water, fire, lockable rooms.

Others are foolish paranoias that

are only there because I think

too much about what will go wrong:

Speech, love, mistakes,

horror movies, stairs,

being left alone…

A complicated problem of not wanting

to be alone, but panicking at too much

attention. Scared of small spaces but

paranoid in open ones.

My real problem is that I think too much,

I force myself to find everything that might

go wrong, convince myself it will happen, just

so that I don’t raise my hopes too high.

I over think things.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Picking Up The Pieces

I stand in the wreckage,

a battleground where love once lived,

a place that knew the warmth of joy,

the rhythm of belonging.

Now it’s silent,

still as the aftermath of a storm,

with my heart shattered into

a thousand jagged pieces.

 

I’ve tried to walk away,

to leave the fragments where they fell,

to let the earth swallow the ruins,

but something in me refuses—

a voice that whispers,

“This is not the end.”

 

So I kneel,

hands trembling against the dust and debris,

and begin.

Slowly.

Piece by piece.

Each shard, a story.

Each edge, a lesson.

Each crack, a testament

to the battles I survived.

 

The work is messy,

my hands raw from holding

what once was whole,

but still I keep going.

The light catches on every fragment,

revealing beauty

I never noticed before—

a resilience,

a strength

born not from being unbroken,

but from breaking

and rising again.

 

I don’t rush.

There is no clock for this.

There is only the rhythm of healing,

steady and true,

as I rebuild what was torn apart.

It’s not about restoring the heart I once had—

that heart is gone.

This is about shaping something new,

something stronger,

something mine.

 

One day,

when the work is done

and my chest hums with life again,

I’ll know.

I’ll feel it—

the readiness to open,

to give,

to love.

Not because I’m whole,

but because I’ve learned

that brokenness

is just another word for transformation.

 

And when someone looks at this heart—

patched and imperfect,

yet radiating light—

they’ll see not a ruin,

but a masterpiece,

and know they’ve found something rare.

Until then,

I gather the pieces,

careful and slow,

knowing that each step forward

is a victory of its own.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Fortress

Love has broken me—

not once, not twice,

but enough times

that my soul wears scars

like armor.

Enough times

that I’ve built walls so high,

they scrape the sky,

a fortress of my own fear.

Not out of hatred,

but self-preservation.

Not out of bitterness,

but terror.

 

Because I’ve let love in before—

opened the gates,

lowered the drawbridge,

only to watch it

turn into a siege,

leaving me hollowed out,

a battlefield

where my heart used to be.

 

And now,

I guard myself.

I speak in riddles,

laugh to deflect,

and wear a mask so seamless,

no one even tries

to see what lies beneath.

Because the truth is,

I can’t bear to be undone again.

 

If love wants me now,

it’ll have to be

something more—

not fleeting infatuation

or empty promises.

No, it will have to be

mindblowing.

Perfection carved from truth,

not fantasy.

 

It will have to knock down my walls,

not with force,

but with patience,

with kindness so undeniable

that even my fears

can’t argue.

It will have to see me—

not the version I present,

but the raw, real me,

cracked but still standing.

 

It will have to hold me gently,

steady as the rising sun,

showing me that love

can be sanctuary,

not war.

That love can be safe

and wild

at the same time.

 

Until then,

I keep my guard high.

Not because I don’t want love,

but because I need it

to prove itself this time—

to prove that it’s worth

the risk of breaking

all over again.

 

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Mosaic

I am a mosaic—

a tapestry of everyone I have ever known,

every soul I have loved,

every hand I have touched.

 

Fragments of them glimmer in my playlists,

in the rhythm of my steps,

in the way I steep my tea,

letting it linger, like memories too strong to fade.

 

We may not speak anymore,

our paths unraveled by time,

but invisible threads bind us still—

a connection, subtle and unbroken.

 

I carry their echoes,

their laughter, their silence,

their love and their scars.

And I wonder—

is there a fragment of me in you, too?

 

Do you hear me in the chords of a song,

or taste me in the sweetness of a sip?

Do I live in your quiet moments,

or in the spaces between your thoughts?

 

I hope so.

Because though we’ve grown apart,

we’ve left fingerprints on each other’s hearts,

etched into the mosaic of who we are.

 

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶

Epitome of Ambivalence

I am literally the epitome of ambivalence

The case study of “the girl that wasn’t”

The one who always takes giant leaps from one side to the other,

never letting my toes linger on the line of in-between.

 

My whole life is a series of black and white scenarios

and I wish I could see the world for the beauty everyone else does,

I have an eye for color

and to see it in my life would be quite extraordinary

 

My life is a melodrama and my internal monologue is not only the sanctimonious antagonist but the masterfully constructed protagonist who annoyingly says all the things I already know

And because the personality of the voice is so split

from day to day my life story goes from tragedy to fairy tale

and everyday is a cliff hanger

 

They say the world is a stage

and some moments deserve an audience

but I feel like the puppet in one of those booths

and the puppeteer is either crazy or drunk because my audience watches me

and they can’t quite decide if they’re watching it because its just too stupid funny to walk away from or if they actually relate

And I’m tripping and falling becoming tangled in the strings

 

This poem is word vomit and scrambled

which is somewhat fitting because so is my life

Lately I’ve been pondering my exit strategies

Trying to find some glorious way to go

 

Its gonna be chalked up to attention seeking no matter how I do it

So I might as well make it interesting

I was thinking of a cape and a nose dive from a building after explaining that I can indeed fly

Its amazing that the difference between

making your life and taking your life

is one letter

and to be frank I’m too scared to do either

 

I am very practiced in the art of black and white

but life

life is the eternal gray area

and I am a perpetual wanderer.

 

I imagine the world as a body and myself the black plague

compromising everything

so the cells in the body fight with a sense of immediacy to survive

And I must say I’m not one for violence,

but this war needed a canvas.

 

The body knows not what to do

with the mundane intruder so it defends itself

Dancing by with exuberant oranges, and joyful yellows,

assertively stabbing red marks, spattering a stable blue onto the stranger and a majestic purple.

 

I was drowned in the color spectrum,

I was painted furiously and vibrantly,

I live in black and white and life attacked me with a lethal dose

of hues that might have been beautiful

if not experienced so painfully.

 

Stain me all it wanted

I am still the black plague,

unwanted, feared, avoided;

and the world well,

it knows just as well as i do that I don’t belong here.

 ©𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉ℛℯ𝒶𝓁𝒯ℯ𝒶