Passionate— that’s the word they hand me
when I spill over the edges.
I notice when others do, too,
when their laughter is louder than the room,
when their feelings arrive before their words.
Yet when it is me,
I do not know how to bite my tongue
while I am busy making someone laugh.
I hope they understand my theatrics— not as a performance,
but as evidence.
Evidence that I care enough
to be silly,
to stretch a story,
to gesture with my whole body,
to get the point across,
to be heard.
I am only trying to leave joy on someone else’s face.
To earn a smile through effort.
To make someone feel understood through action.
To be vulnerable enough to participate in this strange human existence without constantly negotiating
the possibility of judgment.
To be perceived with understanding—
that is what I give,
and what I hope to receive.
Yet when I wish upon a star,
I am told I am passionate,
the word arriving through a condescending tongue. And it is not the first time.
Lovers have used it before,
holding the word between us
like a compliment with a warning hidden inside. Passionate. Too much.
I see it in others
and never think to resent them for it.
So why is it so difficult
to imagine it could be me?
I am only trying to be myself—
relatable,
unguarded,
with nothing to prove.
areudirty
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