judgment
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Maybe one day I won’t have to choose between relief and proving myself. Maybe one day healing won’t come with conditions. Maybe one day I’ll light a joint without wondering who might judge the smoke. Until then, I’ll keep choosing the future I’ve been fighting for— one clear morning at a time.
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They’ll always have an opinion. Too loud.Too quiet.Too broken.Too healed.Too honest.Too much. They’ll call art a wastebecause they cannot seethe pieces of my soulpressed between the lines. They’ll ask why it doesn’t rhyme,as though painhas ever followedsomeone else’s rules. They’ll laugh at the wordsthat kept me breathing,dismiss the pagesthat carried mewhen nothing else could. They’ll…
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They speak in easy sentences,as though motherhoodis measured by a single meal. A chicken nugget.A bedtime missed.A moment caughtwithout the thousandthat came before it. They don’t countthe mornings I rosebefore the sun remembered my name.They don’t countthe tiny hands reaching,the tears I soothed,the stories I readfor the hundredth time. They don’t carrythe grocery bags,the sleepless…
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They see the smoke. They don’t see the panic attack that never happened. They smell the flower. They don’t smell the sleepless nights it softened. They judge the ritual. They never witnessed the battles it helped me survive. Funny, how the loudest opinions so often belong to people who’ve never carried your pain.
Between Bruises and Blooms 