Britta ashcroft

“I don’t remember who I was. I remember blood. Cold pavement. Music echoing from somewhere I couldn’t reach. > > They say I’m Toreador, but I don’t feel like an artist—I feel like a canvas someone else painted over. > > I feel things too deeply. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it saves me. > > There’s a mark on my palm—a crescent moon. I didn’t put it there. I don’t know what it means. But it feels like it’s watching me. > > I’m not strong like some of them. I don’t fight. I endure. I listen. I see things others miss. > > I think I was made for something. Not by choice. Maybe not even by kindness. But I’m still here. > > I’m Britta. I’m trying to remember. I’m trying to matter.”