They Only Care When I’m Quiet ( repost from spacehey )

They’re angry at me
because I told the office.
Because I wanted safety.
Because I refused to be silent
while they planned to ruin me.

They wanted to cancel me.
Tell the school.
Bring up my past.
Tell my seventh grade friends
things I barely survived.
I lost someone.
I lost a friend.
They forget—
I have a heart.
I’m a person.
I have problems.
I have mental illness.

They call me selfish.
Narcissistic.
Blind.
Clueless.

They side with Raisin—
who's cheating,

who’s assaulted people,
but I’m the monster
for speaking up,
for feeling,
for telling adults
that this is illegal.

I cry?
I’m dramatic.
I speak?
I’m attention-seeking.
I hurt?
I’m told it’s my fault.

I cried in the bathroom for an hour.
Looked in the mirror
and hated my face.
Ugly.
Tears on tile.
Banged my head on the wall
just to feel something.
Numb.
Shaking.
Not fair.
Not fair.
NOT FAIR.

They ignore my boundaries.
My name.
My pronouns.
My emotions.
My diagnosis.
“Not everything’s about you,”
they say,
as they make everything about them.

I was used.
Dated out of loneliness,
not love.
They pretend to care,
but only when it’s easy.

They say I cheated
when no one said
polyamory was off the table.
Coolie got cheated on.
But I’m the one they hate.

They talk about doxxing me.
Blackmailing me.
Harassing me.
That’s illegal.
But I told the office
and now I’m the villain.

When I cry, I’m annoying.
When I hurt, I’m manipulative.
When I speak, I’m dangerous.

I wrote through blood on the page.
My wrists were numb.
My body shaking.
Paper soaked in tears.
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe.

And the nightmares—
oh god, the nightmares.

My old best friend Coolie
hurting me.
Blood everywhere.
I wake up screaming.
Will—my partner—
raping me.
Violently.
Again and again.
I cry,
go back to sleep,
and dream it again.
Over and over.

I’m haunted.
Not just by what happened
when I was seven.
Or four.
But by how it follows me,
morphs into the faces of people I love.
Coolie.
Will.
Vivi.
Vienna.
Nicole.

I dream of being killed.
Beaten.
Assaulted.
Waking up in sweat
and silence.
I try to move on
but how do you move on
when sleep is a war zone?

I try to make people laugh.
Throw glitter.
Smile.
Jollybait.
Just to see someone else happy
while I break.
While I plan to switch schools.
Run away.
Or disappear.

My heartbeat races.
I have to stop,
calm myself,
tell myself it’s not my fault.
But my body doesn’t believe me.

I tear my pillows.
Shake in bed.
Sirens in my ears.
It’s not fair.
It’s not fair.
IT’S NOT FAIR.

But nobody listens
unless I’m quiet.
Unless I’m broken in a way
that doesn’t make them uncomfortable.

I have PTSD.
And I’m not crazy.
I’m not lying.
I’m not "too much."
I’m just hurt.
I’m just surviving.
Even when it doesn’t look pretty.
Even when I bleed on the page.

So don’t tell me to move on.
Not when I’m still living through it.