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Just let me talk.

They ask me how I’m doin’,

I say, “I’m cool,” and that’s efficient.

Not a lie, just incomplete

I learned to speak in omissions.

Truth don’t always fit

inside a casual exchange.

People want updates, not context,

so I shorten the pain.

I used to overexplain,

thought honesty meant detail.

Now I keep it light enough

that nobody feels frail.

I don’t cry in public,

don’t vent on the beat.

I just organize the damage

so it sounds like peace.

They say, “You look better,”

I nod like I agree.

What they mean is I’m quieter,

less inconvenient to see.

I didn’t fix the problem,

I fixed how it appears.

I learned how to stand upright

while my chest caves in.

Everybody loves progress,

especially from a distance.

Before and after pictures,

they don’t ask what’s missing.

Nobody stays for the middle

where you’re stable but stuck.

Not broken enough to save,

not healed enough to call it luck.

I don’t miss the chaos,

I don’t miss the nights.

But calm feels like a setup

when you’ve lived in a fight.

Silence makes room for questions

I don’t feel like answering.

So I keep the TV on low,

let the noise do the parenting.

I got routines now,

sleep on time, eat my meals.

On paper, I’m fine

still don’t know what I feel.

They call that “growth,”

I call it adaptation.

Same pain, new posture,

better presentation.

I don’t feel good.

That’s not the point.

I learned to function

without the noise.

No healing arc,

no victory lap.

I’m not “better,”

I adapted to that.

Don’t clap for me,

I didn’t ascend.

I just stayed standing

where most of y’all bend.

They love the word “healed,”

’cause it makes them comfortable.

Means I won’t remind ’em

that the system’s still surgical.

They want a clean ending,

something they can repost.

If I’m still carrying weight,

then who the fuck do they toast?

Don’t tell me “choose joy”

like I didn’t earn my doubt.

Like my brain didn’t learn survival

by shutting feelings out.

You call it negativity,

I call it pattern recognition.

I didn’t wake up broken

I woke up paying attention.

Y’all romanticize recovery,

sell it like it’s a brand.

Before and after captions,

no middle to understand.

You don’t want the truth,

you want progress you can digest.

So I stay quiet on purpose

’cause honesty makes you restless.

I don’t feel good.

That’s not the point.

I learned to function

without the noise.

No healing arc,

no victory lap.

I’m not “better,”

I adapted to that.

Don’t clap for me,

I didn’t ascend.

I just stayed standing

where most of y’all bend.

I don’t talk about trauma

’cause it turns into content.

People love your story

long as it’s well digested.

But the truth is messy,

doesn’t land in a quote.

So I keep it folded up

in the back of my throat.

I’m not angry anymore,

I’m just alert all the time.

Like my nervous system

never got the memo we’re fine.

They say, “You’re strong,”

but they don’t mean resilient.

They mean I don’t make my pain

a shared experience.

I carry it quietly,

that’s what they reward.

You only get applause

when your suffering’s orderly.

No cure.

No applause.

I didn’t win,

I just didn’t fall apart

where you could see it.

If this is “healed,”

don’t sell it to me.

It still hurts

I just stopped asking

who’s supposed to care.

Turn the lights off.

Leave the beat running.

I’ll be right here

when the noise comes back.