If you ever see me poker-faced,
don’t you worry —
it’s not you.
It’s me.
I’m in the sinking stages
of a rather terminal illness
popularly known as:
I don’t give a fuck
about what you think.
And —
When I tell you
I don’t give a fuck
about what you think —
know this:
it isn’t malice speaking.
It’s mercy choosing silence
over the slow crucifixion
of truth wrapped in politeness.
It’s what honesty sounds like
before it’s gagged
by the sacred compulsion
to comfort your discomfort
with sugar-coated nothings.
When I tell you
I don’t give a fuck
about what you think —
it means I’ve watched
legions of hollow men parade
their noise as nuance,
their cowardice as clarity,
their need to be seen
as a substitute for substance.
And I —
I’ve run out of claps
for performances I didn’t buy a ticket for.
So no, I won’t cheer.
And no, I won’t rage.
I’ll just respectfully
not give a fuck.
When I tell you
I don’t give a fuck
about what you think —
it means I’ve been bruised
by too many slogans,
betrayed by too many banners,
bored by too many borrowed beliefs
masquerading as identity.
And I have no space left
in my pockets of patience
to house another false god
disguised as opinion.
I’ve spent too many years
shapeshifting to make you comfortable.
That season has ended.
Interpret it as you will.
I’ll still
not give a fuck.
When I say
I don’t give a fuck
about what you think —
it is not metaphor.
Metaphors are bone china —
offered to guests
you actually wish to host.
I am not accepting visitors.
And if any of this
offends your delicate myth
of mattering —
you are welcome to your perceptions,
your projections,
your self-appointed damnations.
I —
I don’t give a fuck
about what you think,
or what your thoughts of me
do to your sense of self.
Just like how
you don't give a fuck
about everything uncomfortable
to your furnished ideas of convenience.
You and I are almost identical
The only difference is,
only one of us has their femurs intact.
Here, don't forget your crutches!
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