I was born screaming
I was born screaming.
Not the soft wail of new lungs testing air, but something deeper. Older.
A cry that came from marrow, from memory not yet made.
As if I knew before knowing was possible that this world was never built for me.
They called it colic. Fussing. A difficult baby.
But really, I think I just understood too early what it meant to be misplaced.
To arrive in a life shaped like someone else's skin.
I kicked. I thrashed. I roared. I raged.
Not because I was broken.
But because something sacred inside me refused to stay silent.
I was screaming at the world built on lies.
At the rules I hadn't agreed to.
At the injustice of it all.
They tried to calm me.
Rock me quiet.
Smother the fire in lullabies and routines.
But the flames never died
they just learned to hide.