Witness Me

Witness me.

Not fix me.

Not label me.

Not turn me into a lesson you can carry home.

Witness me.

I was a kid with a mouth full of truth and a room full of weather.

Love wasn’t love it was conditions.

It was tone. It was timing.

It was what you could afford that day.

So I learned the art of disappearing in plain sight.

I learned to be useful.

I learned to be quiet.

I learned to read danger in footsteps, in the way a cup hit the table, in the silence that punished harder than words.

And still

I spoke.

And still

it didn’t matter what I said.

So somewhere inside me,

a small throat grew fangs.

A small heart grew armor.

A small nervous system learned

that honesty gets you hurt.

Now I’m older, and the body remembers first.

The bracing.

The tight jaw.

The trap tension.

The “don’t need anything” posture.

But there’s a kid in here who is done being polite about survival.

He’s not asking for a solution.

He’s not asking for a speech.

He’s standing in the middle of the room with a megaphone and a cracked voice and he’s saying:

Witness me.

Stay.

Don’t make this about you.

Don’t turn away.

Don’t edit me into something easier to hold.

Just…

see me.

Because I’ve carried this alone for so long

that even being seen feels like something I have to earn.

And I’m tired.

So here it is

RAW.

unpolished.

alive:

I didn’t deserve what I got.

I deserved someone steady enough

to hold the truth without flinching.

Witness me.