You have the floor.
Good.
Because I’m tired of swallowing things whole—
grief, rage, silence—
like they’re vitamins meant to make me better.

Go ahead, tear up the polite script.
Spit out the part where you’re “fine.”
We both know that’s a lie wrapped in duct tape
and thrown in the trunk.

Talk like your teeth are knives.
Say it like your chest is cracking open
and you don’t care who gets blood on their shoes.

Tell them about the nights you stared at the ceiling
like it owed you an apology.
About the way your voice got small
every time you needed it loud.

This isn’t about being understood.
It’s about being undeniable.
About making the walls remember
you were here.
That you burned,
that you didn’t blink,
that when they gave you the floor—
you took it.