Libra Moon: Balancing Act

Your honor, the defense would like to punch a mirror.

Let the record show:
I knew what I felt.
I knew what I needed.
And I withheld it because I didn’t want anyone to call me dramatic again.

I was raised to be the nicest fucking battlefield you’ll ever step foot on — lace doilies over landmines.
Soft voice with sharp aim.

Don’t let the gloss fool you.
This mouth is archival.
It remembers every time someone called me “sweet” when I was screaming internally in cursive.

There’s a courtroom in my ribcage.
Cherry wood.
Gilt trim.
A hung jury of ex-lovers and friends who ghosted when I got too hard to look at.

I wear a velvet robe but I bite through it.
The judge is me.
The bailiff is also me.
The witness protection program is literally just me ghosting anyone who thinks silence equals surrender.

Your honor, may I submit Exhibit W: the smile I weaponized to make everyone think I was fine.
Exhibit T: the moment I said “it’s okay” when I should’ve said “never speak to me again.”
Exhibit F: my tongue, bitten bloody, so the group chat wouldn’t fracture.

I object.
To your passive apologies.
To your timing that only arrives when I’m calm again.
To your adoration of my peace when you never earned it.

I object to my own feelings because they’re inconvenient and too jagged for pretty people.
But I still feel them.
And I still show up.
In perfect mascara and steel-plated self-awareness.

So no, I won’t throw the chair.
I’ll just adjust it.
Center it perfectly under the desk I no longer sit at.
Write you out of the story in font so elegant you won’t realize it’s a verdict until the door clicks behind me.

The scales never broke — I just stopped holding them for people who never once weighed me back.