if it is an insult

Were you upset today? Were you made to feel small? By those eyes, or those words? The ones you know are there, and you splinter as they strike—goddamn, we believed in you so much. You probably feel so broken by now, but I know you are loved, and I know you cultivate your quiet colours, with all those things that will make life kind for those who are able to draw close enough.

Take heart: the insult is unsure, the hate is trembling. You know this so deep in you.

So you were cast down to your beautiful puddles. So you were bent out of a common shape. So you think about it all, and find yourself with more wild dreams than the intent of the cruelty was to imprint.

If you are heavy now with it all, then you should be, that your belief in lightness was that inspired—how anyone could carry that grimness within. You realise they did not even know your name. I would hope that they were not so alone (surrounded) as they seem, to throw such spit.

We move so violently between these feelings, because we are alive.

(I received such a hurtful cut today, from someone I do not know, and hold no intent to hate them for. It moves even here—you are not alone.)