The Rain That Tainted My Lily

I have finally found the name of what I feared the most; and how painful it is—nothing could burn more than watching it come true.

I never thought I could wound a heart so deeply by doing nothing at all.

Maybe the mistakes I thought I had left behind have now echoed in their eyes.

Maybe I’ve lost myself in the shadow of my own silent sins.

What mistake did I make?

Which word made you sick?

Which glance chilled your heart?

If only, for a moment, you could feel as deeply as I do.

I want to run away. To disappear.

To become as small as a speck of dust carried away by the wind.

But that dark feeling inside me slowly drags me into an endless void.

Why would a person ever wish to vanish?

Why would anyone want to erase every trace of their existence, to wish they’d never been born?

I hate myself… for all the whys, the what ifs, the if onlys, and all the apologies that no longer mean anything.

Sometimes I feel estranged from myself; this is one of those moments.

What was I expecting?

Why did I return, why did I speak, why did I stay silent?

I can’t turn back time.

Every mistake is like a stain carved into the walls of my soul.

I hurt my lily — that pure, white, delicate being — and smeared it with my own dirt.

I disgust myself.

I want to leave — this time truly, quietly, completely.

But words no longer bring comfort.

Even writing no longer eases the darkness inside me.

Why do I keep asking so many questions?

Maybe I already know the answer, but I’m too afraid to hear it.

I am too filthy to ever be the rain again.

I am the shore the rain once touched — now only mud.

I’ve become so stained that no one wants to touch me.

Even the rain is ashamed to fall on me.

I don’t know how I turned into such repulsive mud.

My harm isn’t only to myself, but to every soul, every heart I’ve ever touched.

And yet, only days ago, I was talking about starting over — a clean, new page.

Now I’m drowning in my own stains.

They’re so dark… I’ve dimmed even the whiteness of my lily.

I should never have made them feel this way.

Because I didn’t feel that way myself.

It was as if my dreams had come true — but that’s just it: they were dreams.

And when I woke up, everything fell apart.

I couldn’t hide my stains; I broke, I dirtied, I ruined them.

Now they long to be cleansed — and I just want to be erased.

Maybe they were right.

I have never carried the purity of rain, only the weight of mud.

And now, even the rain no longer wants to fall on me.