There’s a tree inside me that grows backwards.
Its roots reach toward the sky,
its leaves curl with the sound of names I can no longer say.
And every time I try to prune it,
another silence blooms.
They ask me to tend to the soil,
to weed out what’s wrong,
as if I haven’t been plucking thorns from my ribs
just to make room for someone else’s garden.
I am tired of being the sun to people who never look up.
Of pouring warmth into cold hands,
only to be told my fire burns too bright,
too often, too loud.
Once, I tried to love without needing to be loved back.
It hollowed me into something wind could whistle through.
They said I was strong.
But strength has teeth.
And mine has been chewing through the ache for years.
Some nights I swallow the stars
just to feel a little full.
Some days I walk into storms
just to hear someone ask if I’ve made it home.
I am not the villain.
But I have worn the cape,
stitched from all the apologies no one ever gave me.
They say “heal.”
But healing feels like building a cathedral
with hands tied behind your back,
while the world critiques the cracks in your stained glass.
I am trying.
Not to be soft, or kind, or perfect—
but to be real.
To stop erasing myself
just so others can feel whole.
So if I disappear into the orchard that ate the moon,
know that I was only looking
for a place where mirrors don’t bite
and love does not cost
everything.
Anggerik
