Ate Lala held the world in glass,
Each photo stitched with silent screams.
She captured truths too raw to pass,
Yet faded out of all their dreams.
She didn’t ask for golden thrones,
Just wanted to lead those behind the lens.
But love is cruel in brittle tones,
They broke her heart with quiet pens.
She smelled like coffee and old ink,
Stayed late to fix what others left.
But loyalty begins to sink
When passion turns to subtle theft.
They took her name from every sheet,
Replaced it with a safer smile.
She walked away on blistered feet—
Her worth unclaimed, her art on trial.
Now I, a writer, trace her ghost,
My hands are still red from last week’s draft.
I speak the truth, I bleed the most,
But effort’s just a photograph.
They say they want the brave and kind,
But praise the ones who play it sweet.
They leave the warriors behind—
Reward the silence, not the heat.
I led through storms no one recalls,
Held broken bones and kept us sane.
Yet still I watch as her fate calls,
Like rusted keys on rusted chains.
Editor-in-Chief, they say,
But only for the soft and gold.
My spine too sharp, I can’t obey,
So I am left out in the cold.
The paradox cuts through my back:
The more I give, the less I mean.
They chase the ones who barely crack,
And call the bleeding ones obscene.
They called her loud for wanting less,
They call me proud for wanting more.
But dreams don’t bloom beneath distress,
And hearts can’t lead behind a door.
She only asked to guide the frame,
I only asked to guide the fight.
Yet both of us erased our names
To feed a lie wrapped up in light.
We taste the ink like bitter wine,
We hold our breath, we bite our tongues.
They clap for those who toe the line,
And leave the real behind the young.
Will I be just like Lala was,
A leader drowned in soft neglect?
A fire dimmed without applause,
A soul too strong for their respect?
I memorized the rules they wrote,
Then watched them burn them out of spite.
Now all I wear is every quote
That proved I could, but not quite right.
So bury me in Lala’s grave,
With every girl who tried too hard.
We weren’t too loud—we were too brave.
A brilliant waste. A proud discard.
