If I mess up, it’s all up to me
That if I scoop out a part of me, I can let them steal its gloss to leave me with zeros
I grew up not telling anyone what I feel, how air is polluting my parietal lobe, who bullies my source of confidence, which path to take, and when I got punished by a dead poet.
It wasn’t just an isolated vase I’d lived with; there were thorns pinching me the word—burden.
Am I a heavy charge to be earned with a penny of attention? Well, I am not anyone’s duty, but at least encourage me to speak; give me something to master; teach me how to correctly care; confront my selection of expressions.
Because this is not how I wanted to go great guns; this is just how my lifeline suppressed my inside emergencies.
To keep quiet is exactly how I starve my eagerness to live with conversations. Did it make me feel better? Yes, but my alternate ego would shake her head. Because for the longest time, I do want to bite someone’s forte to raise me in the form of soft screaming rather than an empty voice.
Maybe I was made with love but unplanned, so they raised me unloved to shut me up like this.