I was softer
before the world started touching me.
Before their eyes lingered
like a thumb pressed into bruised fruit.
Before I learned that silence
was safer than no.
That their hands,
even when clean,
carried the rot of entitlement.
That their words could split skin
without raising their voice.
I was softer,
rounder in spirit.
Unashamed to take up space.
To wear joy in color,
to move without apology.
But they taught me,
in stares, in slurs,
in rooms where their names
opened doors mine never could,
that softness is for swallowing.
Now,
I feel it in my bones:
the ache of every woman
who stood smaller just to feel safe,
every queer person
who buttoned up their truth
because a man’s comfort
is worth more
than our lives.
 | A guest post by
|