When I kept my expression coolly aloof, you'd complain that
I wasn't happy enough, that being around my lack of emotion
was draining all of yours. When I cried openly in front of you,
you were disgusted that anyone could be so full of drama and
promptly ran for the safer shelter of someone else's
company until I ‘got over myself’. When I laughed
freely and truly, tears of mirth streaking down my face and my
breaths coming in short hysterical gasps because what had
caused the gleeful outburst was just too funny for a quiet
giggle to do it justice, you voiced your opinion that the sound
was too loud, too ugly, too much like some wild animal. And
that was the problem: you didn't let me feel what I wanted
to feel, in the way that I wanted to feel it. My emotions
weren't valid unless they were the ones you wanted to see
in that moment. I think sometimes you didn't even view me
as a human, but as a robot whose buttons you could press to get
a particular output. You tried to polish me to a flawless
shine, but found that my metal was too rusted. You tried to
reprogram my wires, but your nerves frayed from one too many
shocks. In the end you realized I was equipped with my own
defenses and would only outsmart you, so you dismantled me and
fled. I was left to clumsily reassemble my parts and pieces in
the junkyard of my heart. I won't be in mint condition for
the next person whose hands I fall into, but I won't be
seen as scraps to be repaired, either. I'll be recognized
as a beating heart, an independent mind, a warm body of soft
flesh that collapses under too much pressure and builds itself
back up; something sentient and perfectly functioning as is. I
am not a machine in need of oil for my creaking hinges, the
dents in my armor do not need to be glossed over. What needs
reconstruction is the way you treat those you claim to love.