I didn’t crack.
The seams were already there.
I just moved the wrong way
and the whole thing gave out.
They called it collapse.
But I remember choosing
not to scream.
Started locking it in my throat
like a jail cell with polite teeth.
Not because I was strong
because I knew
no one would come.
I trained my face
to do what my fists couldn’t.
Kept it friendly.
Even when I tasted blood.
Every reflex they judged
was a fire alarm
that got ignored
until I stopped pulling it.
They said I was dramatic.
Said I needed help.
But only after I stopped being useful
while drowning.
No one saw the choke chain
until I yanked back.
And then suddenly,
I was the problem.
That’s how it works—
bleed quietly, or be blamed for the mess.
They loved my silence.
Fed off it.
Called it growth
because I stopped making them uncomfortable.
But I saw restraint
in a straightjacket tailored
by systems that call obedience “wellness.”
They want performance.
Smiles that pass inspection.
Rage gift wrapped into HR-safe language.
So I just got better at pretending
I didn’t want to burn the whole thing down.
I wore my instincts like contraband.
Kept them hidden
because I knew how fast
truth gets punished.
They measured my pain
against charts made for machines
and called my trauma a malfunction.
Said I needed to calm down.
Like I hadn’t been holding my breath
since I was six.
They never asked
why I scan every room.
Why I sit with my back to the wall.
Why I know how many exits there are.
I didn’t adapt.
I stepped outside myself and never fully came back.
Because survival makes monsters
out of the ones who saw it coming.
And I saw it.
All of it.
The lies they live in.
The decay they wallpaper
with speeches and slogans.
Maybe I’m not broken.
Maybe I just stopped apologizing
for noticing the fire
they keep calling society.
Maybe the world
is just
fucked up.
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