You tell me I am so good
at changing- so good at
taking advice and doing
better. I should not have
to change. I should not
have to mold and alter
myself- I should not have
to take a knife to my
personality and carve out
whatever you want. You
force me to use a sharpie
and draw on fake facial
expressions- to take
bleach to my wandering
eyes and scissors to my
quivering lips- to erase
words you do not like from
my script until I say nothing
at all. I surgically remove
one of my lungs so I do not
take in so much air- I remove
my limbs one by one so I do
not use up so much space.
I make myself smaller- I
compact myself into a tiny
waist and a continuously
decreasing number but it
is still not enough for you.
Large fish eat the small
fish, but we are humans-
we are people. Are you
trying to force me into an
easier pill to swallow? I
will make you choke- I will
bust your windpipe and
steal the air from your
lungs. You say this is just
the rules of survival, but
survival is not brushing a
lion’s teeth from inside its
mouth. Survival is walking
out and away, but what if
I do not want to just survive?
Why do I have to pick
the route that is the most
pleasant for everyone else?
Why do I have to stunt my
own growth- to starve
myself because I remind
you too much of your own
regrets, to hate myself
because children are just
reflections of their parents,
and you hate yourself too.
I do not want to just
survive. I want to thrive
and thriving means pulling
out all of the teeth in the
lions mouth so it can not
hurt me anymore. It is
cutting off its tongue and
wearing it like a scarf-
what is warmer than
freshly drawn blood,
anyway? I do not want to
live in a fearful neutrality
with something I know
will eat me alive- I want
to let it know that if it
does try and eat me,
I will open the gates of
hell from within its stomach.
You want me to change?
To be better? I will. I will
be myself- I will be the
person that terrifies
everyone, the one that
performs root canals on
Godzilla and turns its
teeth into dream catchers.
You want me to become
the tiny fish? The algae
you eat? Honey, I will
become the ocean. I will
turn your so-called gills
into a braille suicide note.
I will turn your cries for help
into bubbling sea foam.
Just try and swallow me now.