The vase tipped over—just water,

just petals spilled like a lazy yawn of spring.

But their eyes sharpened like broken glass.

“What did you do?”

A whisper with venom,

like my hands were knives

and not just clumsy.

I got straight A’s the next day.

No one clapped.

But when I tripped on the stage

they carved it in stone.

I swallowed my pride like acid

and smiled like it didn’t burn.

“What did you do?”

Again—

for the bruises I didn’t explain

and the silence I wore like a dress.

They never saw the gold I stitched

into the seams of my own damn shadow.

Only the smoke when the thread caught fire.

And tonight—

the mirror wouldn’t lie for me anymore.

I looked in and saw

a girl unraveling,

nails bitten to moons,

eyes like spilled ink,

mouth full of thunder she never spoke.

I couldn’t breathe without remembering

every sigh they sharpened into shame.

So I screamed.

I screamed loud enough to crack the stars.

And when it echoed back,

the sound was my voice—

hoarse, raw,

aching.

“What did you do?”

Not theirs this time.

Mine.

Mine.

As I looked down at the ruins of myself

and realized—

I’d finally broken

the only thing I ever truly owned.