Writers 
The last time I was innocent was π
The last time I was innocent
was when I was still
counting the stars,
believing wishes could
come true from
a shooting star.
Still holding firmly
to every superstition,
still being afraid
of wearing black.
I believed the world
was exactly how
people described it.
I believed good people
always got good things,
and bad things only
happened to bad people.
Then, it changed.
My favourite colour is black now,
and somehow,
I prefer the darkness.
Maybe because darkness
doesn't pretend to be bright.
It doesn't promise you
that everything will be okay.
It simply exists,
quietly,
without asking questions.
I grew up
and learned that people
can smile while hurting you,
that promises can be broken,
and that sometimes
the person you trust most
can become a stranger.
I stopped believing
every story I was told.
I started questioning things,
even the things
I once held firmly.
Because at the end,
we do things
we swore
we wouldn't do.
We become people
we never imagined becoming,
and sometimes,
we lose pieces of ourselves
without even noticing.
Maybe innocence
doesn't disappear at once.
Maybe it leaves slowly,
one disappointment at a time.
