Why does my life feel like a stain— not for the world, but for myself. I feel like a defeat, a failure to survive a gentle world. Have I buried the child in me, the one who believed life was lit from within? Maybe I no longer know how to be still, or to see the beauty beneath my skin. Maybe joy was never meant to recognize me. The truth is, my gaze is drained to face the light, to withstand beauty, but only to move with grief in my chest.