If I Were Whole

If I were whole,

truly, fully—

the kind of whole that’s never been broken,

never been asked to trade silence for survival,

never been taught to read a room

like a battlefield—

I think I’d move differently.

I’d speak without scanning for threat.

I’d laugh without rehearsing how it might land.

I’d wake up and trust the day

to meet me with decency.

I’d walk into work

and assume I belonged.

Not because I’d earned it

through exhaustion or endurance,

but because I was always allowed to be here.

If I were whole,

I wouldn’t brace when someone smiled.

Wouldn’t flinch at kindness

like it might come with a catch.

I wouldn’t second-guess the space I take up.

I wouldn’t spend energy

translating condescension into politeness.

If I were whole,

I’d believe love and honesty

could live in the same room,

unarmed.

I’d believe that being good

doesn’t mean being small.

That being strong

doesn’t mean being alone.

I wouldn’t write poems like this.

I wouldn’t need to.

I wouldn’t be trying to prove

to myself, to them, to anyone—

that I matter. That I’m real. That I see what they pretend not to.

I’d just be.

Held. Heard. Whole.

But I’m not.

And I am.

And that’s the tension I live in.

And still, I write.