Don’t tell me to be grateful for the space I’m allowed.
I don’t want allowance.
I want room.
Room to exist without flinching.
Room to breathe without permission.
Room to be quiet and not mistaken for being erased.
Room to be loud and not accused of lying.
They keep asking me to choose as if I haven’t been choosing myself every day against their teeth.
Hands everywhere.
Shaping.
Correcting.
Smoothing me down like wet clay that refuses to hold their fingerprints.
They say: clarify.
They mean: conform.
They say: explain.
They mean: make me comfortable.
They say: be patient.
They mean: disappear slowly.
I am tired of being translated.
Tired of being edited mid-sentence.
Tired of my body being treated like a debate I didn’t consent to host.
There is a version of me they will never see.
Weight where there is hunger.
Flesh where there is memory.
A body that answers every question before it’s asked.
I carry that body like a weapon.
Like a promise.
Like a crime.
Some days I want to rip off the mask.
Not gently.
Not symbolically.
I want to tear down the scaffolding they built around my face and leave it in pieces on the floor.
I want to peel away the flesh that keeps apologizing for existing, step out of the shape they keep handing me, and stand there.
Raw.
Unfinished.
Uncontainable.
Not asking.
Not waiting.
Not proving anything.
I am not confused.
I am not unfinished.
I am not your question mark.
I am what happens when the mold breaks and the hands finally back away.
I take up space.
I take it quietly.
I take it loudly.
I take it without permission.
And I am not giving it back.
