You read my poems like evidence in a trial lining up my words as if healing were a crime. You say stop writing about yesterday as if yesterday didn’t carve me,as if pain should stay buried quiet, obedient, unseen. But my ink is not a confession it’s a release. Every line I write is something I chose not to become. You call it playing good, like kindness is a mask I wear instead of a choice I make every single day to not bleed on people who never cut me. Yes I have been broken. Yes I have made mistakes. But I am not standing here pretending to be perfect I’m standing here trying to be better. And that seems to bother you more than my past ever could. You hold old versions of me like they’re still alive, like I haven’t buried them with every tear, every lesson, every page I wrote just to survive. You don’t trust me I hear it in every accusation, every sharp word wrapped in hurt. But tell me how do I prove truth to someone who already decided I’m lying? How do I love in a place where I’m always on trial? So I write not because I’m stuck, but because I refuse to stay silent About the storm I walked through and the woman I became after. You see my past as destruction. I see it as proof that I’m still here. And no I won’t stop writing. Because my voice is the one thing I refuse to lose again. ~butterfly ~