The real problem

The real problem is not that I feel too much.

The real problem is that I learned

to treat my feelings like evidence

that must be argued into validity.

I learned to present pain

like a case.

I learned to soften anger

until it became palatable.

I learned to call disappointment “fine”

so nobody would ask questions

that might change how they see me.

This poem is about the toll of that training.

I do not want to be the person

who can explain everything calmly

while being quietly demolished.

I do not want to be impressive in my endurance.

I want a life

where I don’t have to earn basic respect

by performing composure.

My central concern

I want to stop negotiating my humanity