They say,
You can always talk to me,
but only if my voice is quiet.
only if my pain is easy to swallow.
only if I smile at the end.
Because when I speak,
the room tightens
eyes roll,
bodies shift,
someone exhales like I’ve added weight
to a world already too heavy for them.
I become
the sigh in their lungs,
the burden in their day,
the drama they swear I “bring on myself.”
Even silence feels safer than:
You’re overreacting.
You\'re too sensitive.
You\'re always like this.
I try to explain the storm inside,
but they hand me an umbrella made of paper,
and tell me I should be grateful
for their effort.
Even when I offer help?
cook, clean, smile?
they brace for failure,
accuse me before I’ve even done anything wrong.
Like my hands ruin things
just by touching them.
I am never the hurting one.
I am the cause.
The interruption.
The wrong note in their harmony.
A walking apology.
They say,
You can talk to me?!
but I’ve learned their love
is conditional on silence.
On smallness.
On pretending I’m fine
so they can feel better
about not seeing me.
So I speak
only in poetry now,
where I’m not interrupted.
Where my pain
doesn’t need permission.