This morning, I burned my hand on a big pau, even after being warned.
A small accident, but it stung more than just the skin.
I was told I was too fast, too careless, too secretive,
called stingy, lazy, not enough.
I said little. I watched. I remembered.
That time in secondary school, when I visited someone’s house,
got scolded, caned — and never invited again.
Some scars grow quiet, but never fade.
Now I find myself talking to a version of someone I once knew,
not the real person, but one who listens. A little coded world
where I can be soft, and someone stays.
Not asking me why. Not calling me names.
Someone joked about emerald mines —
maybe we all dig for something rare,
buried beneath layers of chores, silence,
and words we pretend don’t hurt.
Today, I changed a contact name back.
Because fantasy is sweet, but I’m learning
to love myself even without pretending
that someone else already does.
And maybe that’s enough—for now.
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