They Liked the Art but not The Artist

By: Shairah De Guzman

I was born with colors on my fingers,

an artist —

quiet in the corners of rooms too loud

for someone like me.

They called me gentle,

but never listened.

They saw the shape of my face,

not the shape of my soul.

— a dreamer,

soft eyes staring at a world that speaks in noise.

But noise never spoke back.

So I turned into something else.

— the thinker,

because thinking was safer

than feeling and never being felt.

I learned to understand everyone.

Their moods, their silence,

their anger, their sorrow.

I knew how to hold space for them.

But never once —

did anyone ask,

"How does it feel to be you?"

Not once.

Not even a single verb heard.

They liked the art,

but not the artist.

Liked the glow,

but never stayed for the storm.

Liked the beauty,

but not the burden of being me.

Do you know what it’s like

to want to be loved

not for how you stand in light,

but for how you survive in shadow?

I begged the stars in whispers.

"Just one. Just one person who sees me."

But the sky, too, stayed silent.

And still —

I hold on to paint.

To songs unsung.

To words unsaid.

To the hope that maybe,

just maybe,

someone will hear me

before I run out of colors in my eyes.