TEETH”

TEETH” I don’t want peace. I want restitution. I want the years back you turned into a fucking institution. I want the air back that you poisoned with God, I want my body back that you treated like a prop. You ever live with a predator that wears normal? You ever learn to smile so your soul stays formal? You ever swallow your scream so deep it turns into a disease that doesn’t sleep? Because I did. I did. I did. And now you wanna act like it’s over? Like time washed it clean? Like I’m supposed to be grateful I’m not dead? Bitch, I’m not healed, I’m mean. I’m mean because you trained me to be. I’m sharp because you dulled my childhood down to debris. I’m rage because softness got me punished. I’m fire because I learned early: nobody’s coming. You made me holy and small. You made me quiet and good. You made me kneel for affection like a child understood that love is a weapon and obedience is food. You taught me to disappear on command. You taught me to sign my life with a shaking hand. You taught me “respect” means swallow your truth. You taught me “family” means bite through your tooth. And I swear to God— not your God, not the one you used like a belt— I swear to the part of me that lived through hell: if I could go back, I’d burn the whole script. I’d light the house up with every word you clipped. Don’t talk to me about forgiveness. Forgiveness is for people who didn’t build prisons. Forgiveness is for accidents. This wasn’t an accident. This was methodical. This was architecture. This was cruelty with a smile and a fucking hymn book. You want closure? Here it is: I hope you choke on every “we tried our best.” I hope you hear my silence in your sleep. I hope your peace is haunted by the child you buried alive. Because I remember the tone. I remember the way air turns sharp before violence. I remember the footsteps, the doorframe, the dread. I remember knowing I was safer playing dead. I remember being watched. I remember the sick kind of normal. I remember the way boundaries weren’t boundaries, they were suggestions, they were jokes, they were mine until you decided they weren’t. You don’t get to minimize it. You don’t get to say “it wasn’t like that.” You don’t get to rewrite my nervous system like it didn’t keep the receipts in my back. Because my body knows. My body always knew. Even when my brain went blank, my skin kept the truth. I learned dissociation like breathing. I learned to fracture like survival. I learned to split myself into departments so one could function while one held the vile. One part to smile. One part to obey. One part to carry the filth away. One part to swallow the scream. One part to keep me alive. And you look at me now and call it “crazy” like you weren’t the reason I had to divide. You made me. You made me a weapon out of a girl. You made me a hurricane in a human world. You made me a crime scene walking upright with a college degree and a thousand-yard light. And don’t you dare say “you’re so strong.” Strength wasn’t a gift. Strength was the only option left when softness got ripped. I didn’t become this by choice. I became this by necessity. I became this because nobody protected me, so my brain built security. Now I don’t trust love. I don’t trust calm. Calm is what predators wear before harm. I don’t trust apologies. I don’t trust tears. Tears are just manipulation with a better career. And if you’re offended by how angry I am— good. Be offended. Sit in it. Taste it. Because I had to swallow it for decades while you lived like saints. You want the truth? The truth is I don’t want to “heal” into someone softer. I want to heal into someone untouchable. Unmovable. Unbuyable. Unbreakable. Because the part of me that still wants love is the part of me you tried to kill. So I protect her with teeth. I protect her with rage. I protect her with every boundary you call “too much.” I protect her with fire because water never came. And if that makes me hard to love? Then you should’ve loved me right when I was easy to destroy. Because now? Now I bite.