I Am Not Quiet Anymore

I learned early
that silence is polite,
that pain should whisper,
that survival should never make noise.

So I folded my screams
into my pockets,
carried them like loose change,
spent them only when no one was watching.

But listen—
this voice didn’t come from comfort.
It came from cracked nights,
from mirrors that didn’t recognize me,
from being told “be patient”
while the world ran marathons on my back.

They say, “Stay calm.”
But calm never changed history.
Calm never broke chains.
Calm never stood up
when the room leaned against you.

I am loud because I was ignored.
I am intense because I survived gently once
and it almost killed me.

See, I’ve swallowed expectations
until they sat heavy in my chest.
I’ve smiled at disrespect
like it was a family tradition.
I’ve been the “strong one”
so long I forgot
what rest feels like.

But today—
I unlearn the art of shrinking.
I refuse to make myself digestible
for people allergic to truth.

This voice?
It is not aggression.
It is accumulated honesty.
It is years of being talked over
finally learning how to interrupt back.

I speak for the version of me
who stayed quiet to keep the peace
while chaos moved in rent-free.

I speak for the ones told
their pain was “too much,”
their dreams “too big,”
their existence “too loud.”
If my words shake the room,
good.
It means the room needed renovation.

I am not angry—
I am awake.
I am not broken—
I am becoming.
And if my voice makes you uncomfortable,
ask yourself why
my truth feels like a threat.
Because I am not quiet anymore.
I am here.
And I will be heard.