sometimes i think stigma is just another word for skin. like, the thing you can’t peel off without bleeding. the way people press their eyes into you & you feel it burning, like their gaze is acid, like you are guilty for existing too loudly, or maybe too quietly.

singularity— i like that word. makes me feel like i’m both the last star and the first wound. like i’m collapsing in on myself but also somehow pulling the universe toward me, dragging everything i love into this one-point gravity of my chest. (it hurts, but it’s mine.)

then there’s euphoria. everyone pretends it’s neon lights, glitter, a kiss that solves the hunger. but for me it’s smaller: the second i realize i’m still breathing after crying so hard i swore i wouldn’t. the shadow of my hand on the wall moving when i move—proof i exist. the quiet after the noise where i can finally hear myself think, even if the thoughts are cruel.

stigma. singularity. euphoria. three words like three knives, but when i press them to my tongue they taste almost like honey. sweet, sharp, dizzy. i can’t tell if i’m healing or hallucinating, but i write it down anyway, because some days survival just means naming the things that break you and pretending the names are beautiful.