Brie Nicole Inked

I have spent years learning how to disappear politely.
Rib by rib.
Smile by smile.
A slow erasure dressed up as maturity.

The world handed me a knife and called it discipline.
Said carve away the unbearable parts.
The loud grief.
The trembling need.
The ugly wanting.
Become smaller. Cleaner. Easier to swallow.

So I did.
God, I did.

I split myself open on mirrors.
Left fingerprints in bathroom sinks.
Swallowed my panic until it calcified in my chest like a drowned stone.
A heavy thing.
Rotting thing.
A body tied to its own ankles at the bottom of a river whispering keep smiling.
Keep smiling
Keep smiling.

Everywhere: instructions.
Be beautiful but not hungry for it.
Be soft but not weak.
Be wounded but make it inspiring.
Be survivable.
Be consumable.
Be anything except a person unraveling honestly.

And I tried.

I stitched my mouth shut with approval.
Walked around carrying entire graveyards beneath my skin.
People called me resilient while I was actively disappearing.
Called it growth while I was rotting from the center outward.
Fruit bruising in slow motion.
Teeth grinding themselves into dust.
A heartbeat learning shame.

The self doubt comes feral now.
It crawls into bed beside me and breathes in voices I recognize.

Too much.
Too loud.
Too emotional.
Too broken.
Not enough.
Never enough.

The words pile up inside my throat like floodwater.
I am drowning in language.
Drowning in expectations.
Drowning in the unbearable performance of being alive under fluorescent lights while everyone pretends this is normal.

And some nights I swear I can feel society’s hands around my ribs pressing.
Pressing.
Pressing.
Trying to shape me into something easier to digest.

But I am so tired of being edible.

So tired of sanding my edges down to keep others comfortable.
So tired of apologizing for the blood in my mouth after biting my own tongue all day.
I want to become monstrous with honesty.
All teeth.
All ache.
All open wound.

Because survival is not graceful.
It is ugly lungs.
Ugly crying.
Mascara running like war paint.
It is dragging your half-dead body through another morning out of nothing but spite.
It is choking on your own doubt and still forcing air into your chest.

Still.
Still.
Still living.