I wear a safety pin around my neck— not for fashion, but for memory. A silver stitch over old seams, a whisper: Be careful. Because I’ve trusted red flags painted over by promises of friendship, of someone who cares been hugged by hands that held scissors behind their back. I’ve said, “I'm staying away for a reason.” and heard “Well, that’s not good enough.” So I became the quiet stitch that holds herself together when everyone else unravels me. But when someone left me for the shoreline, and the waves didn’t ask where I went— I held my own hand like a lifeline and walked alone. And maybe my smiles won't be survival. And still, I can hear the ocean
Art is not mine.
