Crescent Moon and the Hurt Unnamed
They saw a smile but never asked what cracked behind the curve. The crescent moon— a sliver of light draped in red, shining like a bruise in the sky— just like him. He wore kindness like armor, but it rusted under ridicule. Called names— Emo, Geek, Closeted, Freak. Bullied by the world, mocked in the safe space, silenced at home. Where emotions were met with, "Man up. Grow up." as if crying were a crime and silence a solution. He was told his pain was weakness. That his softness made him pathetic. That if he wanted to survive, he needed a thick skin— while they sharpened their knives and laughed behind his back. They told him women are too emotional but gave no space for men to feel. They called him a disappointment when he broke, then blamed him for breaking. They said, "You’re just sensitive." as if sensitivity were a flaw, as if rage wasn’t their own legacy wrapped in silence and passed down like inheritance. He kept words instead of weapons, hoping words...