I don’t tell my story for you.

I don’t tell my story for you.
A myth of struggle, the absolute
vulnerability that comes with
cracking myself wide open, a
specimen placed under a microscope,
suddenly splayed out for everyone’s
opinions. I never asked for your
judgment, nor did I ask for your
pity. Does it make you feel
better when you can comment on
the plight of another, offer
advice that reminds you that
there are other people out there
more fucked up than you?

I don’t tell my story for you.
A myth of struggle that I tell
because it helps
to get the words out of my head,
bleeding ink onto the paper.
This is how I process—grief,
trauma, love, you name it. I
tell my story to remind myself
that I am still here, that beneath
the rumination, the esoteric
pain, I take up space here.
I don’t care
if my story makes you feel
uncomfortable or maybe even superior.

I don’t tell my story for you.
I tell it because I don’t know
as a woman
how else I can
exist in this world.

Photo by Taylor Deas-Melesh on Unsplash