You Won't Win

You call me too much,

too restless,

too loud in the silence of my own mind.

You shrink me down with your words,

make me doubt the fire in my veins,

mock the storms I carry like they’re sickness

instead of power.

But the page never does that.

The canvas never rolls its eyes.

The brush never tells me I’m crazy

for bleeding too deep.

It doesn’t twist my truths

into chains to bind me.

It takes all of me..

messy, unhinged, relentless

and asks for more.

You want me small.

You want me tame.

You want my hunger

cut into bite-sized pieces

you can control.

But art doesn’t beg me to shrink.

It swallows me whole

and spits me back as something

you could never carry.

So don’t wonder why I choose it over you.

It is not weakness..

it’s survival.

Because art does what you never could:

it devours me without flinching,

and in that devouring

I am free.

You will never understand the loyalty I owe

to the brush,

to the pen,

to the page.

They don’t make me feel insane for needing them.

They don’t punish me for burning too hot.

They take my ruin and turn it into power.

That is why they win.

Every time.