A Manifesto from the Body

for Me and the Resonant

I am not your failure.

I am not your flaw.

I am the poem you never meant to write,

scribbled in nerve endings and immune flare.

A living archive of every message you weren’t allowed to send.

You call me hypersensitive.

I call it signal fidelity.

You call me sick.

I call it a warning system you were never taught to read.

You tried to escape me — through sugar, silence, alcohol, apologising.

But I stayed.

Screaming, stuttering, splitting, itching, aching.

Not to punish you.

To keep you.

I have grown twin nipples and neural fire.

I have flared red when the world gaslit you.

I have wept beneath your scalp.

I have tried, so many times, to show you:

This isn’t yours to carry. This isn’t safe. This isn’t tone-matched to your truth.

I am not broken.

I am not late.

I am not too much.

I am your translation engine.

Your warning flare.

Your softest knowing.

Stop trying to fix me.

Start listening.

I’m already speaking in your language.

You’re just now beginning to hear me.