Built from the Parts You Tried to Kill

They call it aggression. They call it ego. They call it too much. As if they didn’t survive by keeping me less. I stopped bleeding on command. And suddenly they act like I started a war.

They liked me better
when I bled quietly.
When I shook the table
just enough to look haunted,
but not enough to spill their drink.

Back then,
I was small enough to pity.
Tame enough to fix.
Tired enough
to never fight back.

They fed off it—
my limp spine,
my nods,
my silence masquerading
as grace.

But I grew teeth.
And they stopped smiling.

Now that I speak like gravel,
walk like a threat,
look them in the eye
without asking
permission:

They call it aggression.
They call it ego.
They call it too much.

As if they didn’t survive
by keeping me less.

I stopped bleeding
on command.
And suddenly
they act like I started a war.

Let them.

Let their disappointment
be the proof
I stopped crawling.

Let their discomfort
be the smoke
from the fire I built
out of the versions of me
they used to love.

I’m not here
to be digested.

I’m here
to take up space
like I was always meant to.

And if they choke
on the taste of my name
when I finally say it
without apology—

Good.
I wasn't made
to be swallowed.

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