exist
it makes me feel disgusting; unworthy. i dearly wish that it didn’t.
i wish i could peel the feeling off
like a too-tight shirt,
drop it to the floor,
step out of it.
but it clings.
it learns the shape of me.
when she gets angry,
at the dishes,
at the noise,
at something small and ordinary ,
i feel the undertow beneath it.
it isn’t about the thing, really.
it’s about my body.
my clothes.
the hair on my head.
her anger in the sentence.
it slips between the words,
threads itself through tone,
through glances that last too long.
it finds me
and settles.
and i begin to believe
that i am the offense.
that my existence is a provocation.
that breathing too loudly,
standing too still,
taking up space in fabric and skin
is somehow wrong.
Get isa’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
why must i endure this?
why must i be punished for my existence?
you shouldn’t have to.
someone else’s discomfort
is not proof of your defect.
it is hard not to absorb it.
when the same voice
repeats the same notes
over and over,
the song starts to feel like truth.
but it isn’t.
your body is not a debate.
your clothes are not a crime.
the hair on your head is not a coup.
you are not volatile.
you are not disgusting.
you are not unworthy.
you are a person
in a body
trying to live.
and nothing about that
deserves punishment.
you are not wrong for existing.
