Amelia James Poetry

you said my name
like you knew me.

like my life had been left
open on your kitchen table,
pages dog-eared,
margins annotated
in your handwriting.

you spoke of my mind
like you had earned
the right.

you hadn’t.

you know nothing
about the rooms inside me
that went dark.

nothing about the years
i spent learning
how to turn the lights
back on.

nothing about what it cost
to become a person
i could live with again.

but ignorance has never stopped
a cruel mouth
from calling itself informed.

so you reached
for the thing
you thought would make me small.

my mental health.

as if struggle
were an indictment.

as if surviving something
made me unreliable.

as if you could spit
the word problems
with enough contempt
to make me ashamed
of having fought through mine.

fuck that.

because here is the part
that almost makes me laugh—

while you were busy
making a diagnosis
out of gossip,

i was trying
to fucking help you.

i was asking questions
in rooms you didn’t have access to.

finding names.
finding numbers.
finding people
who might know how
to hold something this heavy.

i used what i knew,
who i knew,
what little reach i had,

and extended it
in your direction.

not because i owed you.

not because i liked you.

because i saw someone
who might be drowning

and apparently
i am still foolish enough
to throw a rope
to someone
who would rather
hang me with it.

but sure.

i’m the crazy one.

i’m the problem.

how convenient
that the same mind
you were willing
to sneer at
was apparently sound enough
when it was busy
trying to find help
for you.

you do not get
to weaponize battles
you were never there for.

you do not get
to dig your fingers
into old wounds
looking for something
you can hold up
and call evidence.

you pressed your thumb
into something tender
just to see if i would bruise,

then called the bruise
proof.

proof of what?

that i have hurt?

that i have needed help?

that i learned
how to ask for it?

what exactly
did you think
i would be embarrassed by?

the therapy?

the healing?

the fact that i know
what it means
to need someone
and that somehow,

after everything,

it did not make me cruel?

you mistook
my history
for a weak spot.

that was your first mistake.

your second
was putting my name
in your mouth
and assuming
i would be too ashamed
to take it back.

so here—

let me make this
easy for you.

my scars are not
your character witnesses.

my pain is not
your punchline.

my mind is not
a weapon
you get to pick up
when your own argument
runs out of ammunition.

and the hand
you tried to slap away?

it was extended
toward you.

remember that.

because if you need
to drag my name
through your war
to make yourself
feel righteous,

at least have the decency
to remember

which one of us
was trying
to help the other.

you do not know me.

you know hearsay.

and you should learn
the difference
before you ever
put my name
in your fucking mouth
again.


-amelia james