The Room You Lock Me In

You think you’ve got me figured out.

Like my chaos is a puzzle you’ve solved,

like you’ve cracked the code

of what it means to live inside my head.

But you haven’t.

You never will.

Because this isn’t something

you can box up and file away.

This isn’t something you get to tame

with a pat on the head

and a condescending smile.

It’s not a goddamn hissy fit.

It’s not “being a baby.”

It’s not me “acting like a child”

because I’m bored.

It’s a fire in my brain,

burning too fast to contain—

every thought crashing like shrapnel,

tearing through my skull

until they blur into one endless hum.

I can’t stop it.

I can’t slow it down.

My words trip over each other,

my body feels too small

to hold all this fucking energy,

and the world just sits there—

watching, judging,

waiting for me to collapse.

Then the fire dies.

And what’s left is worse.

Because when the light goes out,

all I can see is the black—

the pit waiting to swallow me whole.

I hate everything.

I hate myself more.

Every breath is heavy,

every thought is sharp.

I stare at my reflection,

tears I don’t even feel

carving lines down my face,

and all I can think is:

You’re worthless.

You’re broken.

You’re better off gone.

But you don’t see that, do you?

All you see are the scars—

the cuts,

the silence,

the anger spilling out

when the pain has nowhere else to go.

You don’t see the war I fought

just to make it to today.

And you call it drama.

You call it attention-seeking.

You call it fucking selfish.

“Why can’t you just calm down?”

“Why are you like this?”

You act like I’m choosing this.

Like this is something I want.

Do you think I like

being at war with myself?

Do you think I enjoy

not trusting my own goddamn mind?

You sit there, so sure of yourself,

so comfortable in your ignorance,

and you judge me

with your easy answers and lazy labels.

Crazy. Dramatic. Unstable.

You lock me in your room,

slap those words on the door,

and call it done.

And the ones in charge?

Oh, they love people like me—

but not for the reasons you think.

They don’t care about saving us,

just controlling us.

They paint us as monsters,

unpredictable and dangerous,

because it’s easier to scare you

than to fix the system.

They cut the funding,

close the doors,

turn their backs,

and still have the audacity

to call themselves “leaders.”

But I’m not just talking about them.

I’m talking about you too.

Your pity is a fucking insult.

Your advice?

“Take a walk, think positive, drink water”?

It’s a slap in the face.

You’ve never sat in the dark,

watching your mind unravel.

You’ve never stayed awake for days,

your body vibrating with a restless energy

you can’t control.

You’ve never hated yourself so much

you couldn’t look in the mirror

without wanting to smash it.

You don’t get to tell me

what’s real or what’s not.

You don’t get to judge

what you’ll never understand.

Because this isn’t something

you can fix with your half-assed compassion

or your faux concern.

This isn’t for you to fix at all.

Here’s the truth they’ll never tell you:

For everyone like me—

for every person they’ve labeled,

judged, and thrown away—

You are not alone.

You are not broken.

You are not the words they use

to make you feel small.

You are fire and flood,

light and dark.

You are alive in a way

they’ll never understand.

Keep going.

Through the highs, through the lows,

through the silence that feels endless.

Because you are fucking unstoppable.

You are stronger than they’ll ever know.

And your story isn’t over yet.