
I complain about nothing small.
Small things do not trouble me.
I complain about nothing politely.
I complain—though perhaps that is not the word.
Once, it simply meant saying:
this hurts,
this isn’t right,
truth refusing to stay quiet.
Somewhere along the way, it soured—
recast as nagging,
worn thin by repetition,
dismissed by tone rather than truth.
But listen—
I do not complain to be heard.
I complain so the truth does not rot inside me.
And mostly,
I don’t complain at all.
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