The Day I Saw Colors

She is breaking — but never broken. Her chest splits like old paint, revealing tenderness clothed in red, rooted in defiance. The butterfly on her mouth is not silence — but grace: a vow to speak only beauty, even when it aches. Inside this image lives the tired me. Puffy eyes, aching nights, and a refusal to shatter alone. And yet — She holds pain like a cigarette, and wears fragility like armor. Even in the quiet, she commands the stars.