i’ve spent years becoming fluent in a language no one else bothered to hear.
it lives in the tilt of my head, the rhythm in my hands, the hush between my sentences when the words stall.
it’s survival, dressed up as choreography. messy, precise, and deeply mine.
they called it weird. i called it a one-person show with rave reviews, just not from them.
they blinked and missed it.
i blinked and archived it.
repetition was my rehearsal.
fluency, my encore.
call me difficult. fine.
i’ll be in the wings, stitching brilliance from the scraps,
turning your overlooked moments into something loud enough to outlast you.