Unesteemed teachers,
I am no longer nine.
thirteen,
or seventeen years old.
You no longer have the right to call me slow,
directly or indirectly,
in front of my unevolved peers,
nor the right to take your frustrations out on me
as if my silence were permission,
or accommodation,
of your internal emotional struggles.
You do not get to turn your loud voices
your own unresolved pain,
into blades that tear up a child’s innocence,
ever again.
You do not get to take motivation out of my body, ever again.
In this poem,
I reserve the right
to take back my power,
my motivation,
and my inner child,
out of your dirty hands.
I am now twenty-three years old.
Studying in a field I truly love,
surrounded by some of the most insightful, supportive,
and skilled teachers I’ve ever known.
In courses that challenge and inspire me,
that aim to build true confidence,
not through tools that make me artificially decent,
but through genuine and selfmade growth.
Surrounded finally by hyper-evolved, mature, and warm colleagues
a human being could ever desire.
With deep friendships that push me to grow,
and not use my illness
as a permanent shield for my temporal obstacles.
And yet—I carry your voices like tight oxidated chains.
For years,
You made it your mission to convince me.
that I would never be enough for improvement,
that I would never be emotionally enough to be mature,
that I would never be mentally enough for success.
Unesteemed teachers,
Be grateful the Purge remains fiction.
Because if it were ever real,
in the very first minute,
My absence would arrive—loud and uninvited—
at each of your miserable doors.
Rage would load itself into a desperate gun,
each bullet etched with your names,
fate sealed by the weight
of every emotional crime
You committed against my inner child.
I wouldn’t knock to be let in.
My fury would do the honors.
tearing down your weak doors.
In that imagined chaos,
Your unnecessary lives would pay the debt.
of every eternal bruise you left on my spirit.
And I would smile—not from cruelty,
but from the quiet satisfaction of balance restored.
In a world that finally listened.
In a world where your existence
is finally, and necessarily
terminated.
However, I cannot tolerate this painful,
erratic,
and self-destructive mentality anymore,
where every hate,
and every rage,
eats at my moral core.
Every day I prove to myself,
that my journey as a human being can significantly and consequently improve.
And that kindness, awareness, and healing
beat any empty words your voices once managed
to pour into my lightless heart.
Yet, I do not lose hope when it comes to poetic justice
Since Karma is already the purge of the unseen,
and she’s a bitch
when it comes to settling scores.