They ask why I am so angry.
Why I bristle at what they call "little things."
Why I do not accept their claim of intimacy.
They wonder why I am so firm about how I wish to be treated.
They whisper about my harshness.
They walk away, shaking their heads—
"She’s too much."

I wake each morning, heavy—
Not from sleep, but from the weight of loneliness and angst.
A pressure sits in my chest, pressing, smothering,
Trying to extinguish any flicker of light within me.
I ask myself:
Why am I so numb?
Why am I so anxious, so angry?

I hear what they say behind my back.
"She’s a woman—shouldn’t she be sunny, supportive?"
They forget I am human,
A soul marked by traumas and unseen wounds.
But my pain is...