She tells me she thinks it's a luxury to listen to your heart.
She blames me for taking the time to sit with myself. To listen.
How she thinks it's not really necessary.
How it's not really convenient to do so.
And she laughs.
Why is it that I feel insulted and angry by that remark.
Like all the work I've put in me in the past few years wasn't "necessary".
Like all the time I spent tending to my pains didn't lead me to healing.
Like all the softness I payed to myself didn't salvage me from rage.
Allowing myself the "luxury" of listening to myself and loving it was the only way I could save myself.
And when you've been bruised this bad, when your heart's been raised and grown oppressed, beaten, and silenced,
when it's been for too long learning to become invisible, and you've learned to dismiss its pleas like an itch,
how ignorant it is to call my right of ridding myself from all this baggage a luxury.
She blames me for taking the time to sit with myself. To listen.
How she thinks it's not really necessary.
How it's not really convenient to do so.
And she laughs.
Why is it that I feel insulted and angry by that remark.
Like all the work I've put in me in the past few years wasn't "necessary".
Like all the time I spent tending to my pains didn't lead me to healing.
Like all the softness I payed to myself didn't salvage me from rage.
Allowing myself the "luxury" of listening to myself and loving it was the only way I could save myself.
And when you've been bruised this bad, when your heart's been raised and grown oppressed, beaten, and silenced,
when it's been for too long learning to become invisible, and you've learned to dismiss its pleas like an itch,
how ignorant it is to call my right of ridding myself from all this baggage a luxury.
