The Fight to Exist

I do not always speak the things

that coil and churn beneath my smile

the war just to exist, to breathe

without a price affixed to every breath.

It’s tiring,

this constant audition

for worth.

I fight for space in rooms too small

for my truth, my voice, my form.

Each day, another subtle shove

your silence too loud,

your presence too much,

your stillness mistaken for ease.

And somewhere along the way

between microaggressions dressed in compliments

and questions asked with doubtful smirks

I start to wonder:

Maybe I’m not worth the extra dollar.

Maybe my brilliance is just a flicker,

my confidence a lie I swallowed whole.

Maybe I’m not as smart.

Not as good.

Maybe my body is wrong

my hair too wild,

my smile too unsure,

my bust too small,

my skin too much

or too little

depending on who’s measuring.

It’s exhausting,

always having to prove I am

enough to be human.

To remind the world, again,

I bleed like you.

I dream like you.

I ache and laugh and rise like you.

But still

when I claim peace,

when I dare to stretch in sunlight,

to dance without apology,

to live freely

something in them

tightens, bristles, recoils.

Because if I can do it,

it must not be that hard, right?

Because if I succeed,

it must be a glitch in the system,

not a testament to my fire.

They’d rather believe I’m stupid

than face the truth

that I’m sharper than their comfort allows.

And all I want

is a moment

a lifetime

to exist without interruption.

To lay my head down

without fighting shadows

that mimic my own thoughts.

To walk into a room

and not have to earn the air.

To live,

just live,

without it being a rebellion.

But even this poem

feels like I have to convince you.

Like I still have to prove

that I deserve to speak.

To be.

To rest.

To be seen

and not questioned.

And that is the most exhausting part of all.