I.
You were raised in a storm and handed a paper map,
Told to find "north" while the wind spun the compass.
Praised when you played dead, punished when you breathed fire.
They taught you love was earned by shrinking,
That safety meant silence, that obedience was grace.
So you became a contortionist of the soul,
Bending into shapes that made others comfortable,
Until you no longer recognized your outline in the mirror.
They whispered rules in riddles,
Changed the locks on affection without telling you the code.
Gave you a home where the ground shifted
Is it any wonder you grew roots in air?
II.
You were wired for danger like a soldier in peacetime,
A radar spinning, scanning for ghosts.
Now they ask you to sit in a cubicle,
Smile at strangers, pay taxes, and not scream.
You're expected to perform peace while carrying war inside you.
They don't see the girl who was both
The fire alarm and the extinguisher.
The price of survival:
Trembling hands under a brave face,
Chaos stitched into your DNA like old lullabies.
You were raised to read smoke like scripture.
Now they want you to breathe clean air and not choke.
You never found a place you belonged
Just rooms where you were tolerated.
So you shrank.
Wore masks made from other people’s expectations
And called it personality.
You mistook being chosen for being seen.
III.
And he, your lover,
He didn’t really know you.
He memorized your habits, not your hunger.
Kissed your silence, not the storm it held.
It scared him.
He loved the girl who clung to him,
Not the woman who burned when left alone.
He left without wiping the blood off his hands.
Now he gets to be happy?
He gets to rewrite the story-
Where you're the villain for daring to want more than mere existence?
IV.
You were praised for surviving the flood,
Mocked for still wearing life jackets in the bathtub.
"Relax," they say
As if your nervous system has an off switch.
As if safety is something you can unlearn.
And still, you perform.
Furious at the script:
Smile. Soften. Surrender. Yield.
The audience claps when you suffer quietly.
Lipstick on the wounds.
The curtain never falls.
Who are those in the audience?
Why are you still on stage?
You're not just mad at them
You're tired of your own performance,
Your own complicity in the script.
But to escape, you’d have to burn the theatre down.
And they’ve taken your matches.
You pace the spotlight like a caged lion,
Snarling at bars you could walk around.
Oh, how you love the martyr role.
You rehearse helplessness
Until it fits like a custom-tailored coat.
You mock the script,
But god forbid you walk off set and face the silence.
You say they took your matches
But you never lit a damn thing.
You don’t even know if you want out.
You just want to be rescued
So you can blame someone else when the ending sucks.
You're tired of your own bullshit.
Dragging your feet through a maze YOU built,
Then sobbing because you're lost.
Building cages and calling them fate.
Biting your own leash and crying for freedom.
You never picked a lane
And now you curse the road for going nowhere.
You mourn doors you never walked through.
Write sonnets about stuckness,
Then refuse to move.
You're not stuck.
You're indecisive.
And deep down, you like the view from rock bottom-
At least it's yours. At least it’s dramatic.
You cry about the weight
But won't put anything down.
Ache for change,
But cling to your chains like heirlooms.
You could have gone.
You still could.
But you'd rather stay.
And weep.
And call that poetry.
It’s always been easier to ask for permission to live
Than to be in charge of it.
V.
Your rage isn't loud-it’s quiet rot.
There’s no point in running.
Go where you may
Your shadow will follow.
Meaninglessness leaks from your seams.
You brush your teeth. You answer emails.
You do your laundry.
You die a little.
VI.
And they still want explanations.
Scars turned into metaphors.
Triggers footnoted for their understanding.
Pain, but make it pretty.
You owe them nothing.
But still,
you perform.
You cursed the cage,
But now the open door stuns you dumb.
Freedom spreads out in front of you,
And you freeze.
Because no one taught you how to want things.
Only how to survive their absence.
You are still waiting for permission to live.
Still cleaning up a mess you didn’t make,
Mopping blood with bare hands
While they ask why you’re so dramatic.
VII.
You fuckers screwed me up.
You made me.
Now you want me well-behaved?
You raised me in a storm
And wonder why I carry thunder in my veins.
Why I flinch at stillness.
Why I don’t trust calm.
And you have the audacity
To ask why I’m still wet.
I’m finding north on my own now.
Your paper map is ashes.
I don’t know where I’m going.
The compass spins wild-
But this time,
It points to me.