It looks bad, they say.
You look fat, they say.
Why would you put up such a photo, they say.
You don’t understand anything, they say.
You are borderline, they say.
You are psychotic, they say.
You are too short, they say.
Your hair is too white, they say.
Your clothing is poor, they say.
You are cheap, they say.
You are a hoar, he said.
You have the blood of a prostitute, he said.
Leave my home, they said.
This is not your house, she said.
You are a failure, they said.
You are mentally weak, she said.
You held me down, but I got up. I SAY.

Trauma, has anyone asked you what happened to you? Have you asked yourself that and held space for what emerges and was? Can you for today, hear the sound of your OWN voice? Above the deafening clutter of others' definitions of you.

You are more than a checkbox.