Maybe the World is Just Fucked Up

You learned to stop bleeding by biting your own tongue off. Taught your face to be polite when your guts were screaming in code.

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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