I'm done being the reasonable one.
You can keep the halo.
I've held your hand through every meltdown,
translated screams into"it's fine."
I've watched you torch the obvious
and call the smoke a"sign."
I've done the soft voice,
done the patient saint routine—
but I'm not your therapist,
I'm not your quarantine.
You want me gentle?
Earn it.
You want me quiet?
Learn it.
I DON'T HAVE TO BE NICE.
I DON'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN.
I DON'T HAVE TO PRETEND
THAT THIS WORLD ISN'T INSANE.
I DON'T HAVE TO BE PURE.
I DON'T HAVE TO BE SAVED.
SOMETIMES I'M THE FIRE
THAT YOU SHOULD'VE BEEN AFRAID OF.
You call it"just opinions," I call it rot,
call it comfort dressed as law.
You love the mask, you hate the mirror,
then act surprised when I withdraw.
I'm tired of being fluent
in everybody else's cope—
if you want peace without truth,
go buy it with your hope.
I'm not cruel.
I'm just not cushioning it anymore.
There's a difference.
I DON'T HAVE TO BE NICE
I DON'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN
IF YOU WANT ME SOFT,
STOP MAKING HARD THINGS NORMAL.
Yeah.
I'm allowed.
