Why am I always the victim in everyone’s story?
A ghost dressed in guilt,
wearing bruises that don’t belong to me.
They hand me scripts with broken lines,
tell me to cry softer,
to make their ending look clean.
Maybe I’m the mirror they hate
the one that shows their stains
when they swear they’re spotless.
Maybe I’m too easy to bleed on,
too soft to say, that’s not my wound.
I keep asking the sky for fairness,
but it only rains apologies that aren’t mine.
Each drop whispers
You were never chosen to win,
just chosen to feel.
So I rewrite their stories in my own blood,
tear out the pages where I suffer prettily,
and leave this line untouched:
If I am your victim,
then who made me yours?

