Expressing my needs should not get me punished.

A glare so deep it penetrates my soul is a cruel response to my request.

I do not ask for the moon, nor do I demand gilded trinkets, or trips.

I’m asking for time…my time…time for self-care, time for rest, time to get my brain in order.

Most of all, I’m asking for time that doesn’t have to be accounted for; to be graciously unbusy, and able to breathe.

I should bite my tongue rather than ask.

The door seems to have but one purpose: to contain me in servitude, or release me in the like.

I’m not sure when I stopped being a person.

I can’t recall the exact moment that I agreed to this life of isolation, and sadness.

Much of it is my own doing. I didn’t fight hard enough when the stakes were high.

I would have stood my ground were there any actual ground to rest my feet upon.

I never needed to be rescued. I never wanted to be saved.

I dissolved too much of my agency, too much of my autonomy, too much of myself into someone who in reality could only ever dream of knowing how to coexist with someone like me.

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