They say
grief comes in waves,
but mine is a tide that never learned to leave.
It rests beneath my skin like a secret bruise—
blue,
purple,
black where it used to bloom red.
I carry silence like a language
no one taught me how to unlearn.
You told me I was too much,
too loud, too sharp,
too everything
to be loved like something fragile.
So I...
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