Sensitivity is my specialty.
Not a weakness, a frequency.
I tap in where others numb and flee, I read the room, the weather, the lie behind the mouth. They say I'm too sensitive for this world, but I feel what they bury, dodge, and curl. Every side-eye, every slick remark, slides off my skin and strikes a spark. The shade they throw doesn't stick or stay, it feeds the edge, the solar rays, I blaze. What was meant to make me small tuned my sight, refined my call. I don't flinch, I learn, I feel. I don't dull this gift. I wield it. I yield it. What you call “too sensitive” is the mark that lets me see through you.
















