I remember reading a poem out
In front of my eighth grade English class,
My teacher listening attentively,
Probably still my number one fan,
And saying that it even made her think.
It was a poem comparing my feelings to a storm,
Nothing innovative, nothing revolutionary,
Nothing you’ve not already heard before,
But it didn’t matter, it still doesn’t matter,
Because I’m not writing to make you think,
I’m writing to make you fucking listen.
I know who I am on the outside,
Bubbly and just a little bit obnoxious,
A little too sarcastic and I laugh a little too loud,
I’m strongly guarded and protectively reserved,
A lone island in the middle of rough waters,
You gotta really want it if you want to reach center.
But when I write, I’m not hiding;
If I only make you think, I’m making it too easy,
I want to haunt every single person who hurt me,
I want the pain I felt to stab them in the chest,
Understand that’s what they fucking did to me,
And still, I stand, still, I survived, and you did what?
Forget? Of-course you did, good for you,
But I’m here to remind you of the scars you left.
I’m not gonna forgive and forget from apologies
That weren’t ever spoken, weren’t even thought of,
You don’t get to move on with me if you don’t even care,
And you don’t get to pretend my trauma is inconvenient for you,
Because it wasn’t particularly convenient for me either,
Every accusation you hear is you guilt talking,
Because all I’m talking about is the reality I lived.
So if I make you uncomfortable,
Then realize that you should be uncomfortable,
You watched a girl lose the will to live
And didn’t even recognize it for what it was,
But if you want a metaphor to make you think,
Then I’ll tell you there was point in my life,
Where I was chasing storm clouds with a kite,
And all you did was draw the curtains on your windows.