Truth With Teeth

Fragment 392

From the Notebooks of The Poet

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Don't tell yourself that your truth needs to be gentle.

That it whispers or shows up wrapped in kindness.

That it arrives like morning light—soft, golden, forgiving.

Tha'ts Bullshit.

Truth has calloused hands and a mouth full of ash.

Truth doesn't knock politely.

It kicks the door down.

Grabs you by the throat.

Makes you look at what you've been avoiding.

Truth spits.

Truth breaks locks.

Truth is the thing that won't let you sleep when you're lying to yourself.

It's the frequency you feel in your blood when someone says one thing with their mouth and another with their eyes.

It's the pulse that tells you:

Run.

Stay.

This one will break you.

This one might save you.

Most people I've met have forgotten their truth.

They've swallowed so many fragments—been fed so many stories about who they're supposed to be—that they don't even recognize the real thing anymore.

They call it anger when it's clarity.

They call it too much when it's just enough.

They call it broken when it's the only part of them that still works.

My truth?

It's got teeth.

It's wild like a storm that doesn't care if you're ready.

It remembers all the times I was silenced.

All the times I smiled when I wanted to scream.

All the times I made myself smaller so someone else could feel big.

And it refuses—refuses—to go quiet again.

So when they tell me to soften,

to soften my edges,

to make my truth easier to swallow—

No.

You want truth?

Then take it raw.

Take it bleeding.

Take it with all the jagged parts still attached.

Because I didn't survive this long

by making myself digestible.

Truth isn't here to comfort you.

It's here to wake you the fuck up