Every insult arrived
inside a grey bubble.
Every answer I gave
arrived in green.
Maybe that’s fitting.
Because green
is the colour of things
that refuse to die.
You called me names.
I answered
with periods.
You demanded
a war.
I offered silence.
You wanted proof
that I was
everything you accused me of.
Instead,
I became evidence
of restraint.
The funniest part?
You thought
those messages
made you powerful.
They didn’t.
They made me realize
I had finally reached
the place
where your opinion
could no longer decide
who I was.
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