Case Not Finished

Foreword / Introduction

It’s been a bit quiet on here lately because I’ve been ill, and I’m still recovering. I will definitely be back properly once I’m feeling better, but for now, I’m sharing a poem I wrote a while ago and never posted. Also, my older brother Aleksander is going to help out; he’ll be sharing some of my previous work until I’m well enough to write again. As with most of my poems, there is a strong message here, which should be clear.

Poem: Case Not Finished (Free verse, confessional, slam poetry)

INCIDENT LOG // I am here.
DATE // today, again.
LOCATION // wherever people decide to be sharp.
INJURY // not blood, but it still counts.
WITNESSES // the ones who looked away.
MY STATEMENT // typed, because sound is not mine.
THEIR STATEMENT // laughter, like it proves something.
STATUS // ongoing.

They do it like a habit they never question,
a look, a nudge, a name they throw low.
They test the ground to see if I fall,
they want my face to give them a prize.
I keep my eyes forward, like a rule,
but inside, something small flinches anyway.
I hate that my body remembers it,
and I hate that they call that “fun”.

Sometimes it is online, neat and clean,
a comment with a smile stuck on it,
a joke that has teeth hidden in it.
They call me “too quiet” like it is a crime,
they tell me I should “fix” myself for them,
like I am a broken toy in their hands,
like they are the owners of normal,
like I must pay to exist.

I do not have a voice that fills a room,
but I have thoughts that do not need permission.
Still, the hurt lands first, thinking later.
It lands in my stomach, heavy and hot,
it lands in my hands and makes them shake,
it lands in my sleep and makes it thin,
it lands in the mirror and changes my face.
It lands, and they walk away lighter.

I used to think it meant I was less,
that is what bullying teaches, if you let it.
It says: you are the problem, so shrink.
It says: if you vanish, we will be kind.
But kindness with a condition is not kindness,
it is a cage painted like a gift,
it is a bargain where I lose myself.
I am done signing it.

Here is what I notice about them:
they do not bully when they feel safe,
they bully when something in them shakes.
They bully to drown out their own fear,
they bully to get a quick throne,
they bully because silence scares them,
they bully because they need a target,
and they choose the nearest soft spot.

They collect people like props for a scene,
one laughs, one films, one copies the line.
No one wants to be the one left out,
so they all join, even if they know it is wrong.
That is not strength, it is dependence,
that is not bravery, it is hiding in a crowd.
If they were truly solid inside,
they would not need an audience.

I keep records in my head like files,
not to be dramatic, just to stay sane.
Time, place, what was said, who smiled.
It is strange, having to prove pain.
They get to be careless and I get to be exact,
they get to call it “nothing” and leave.
I get to carry it home in my chest,
I get to learn a new kind of tired.

Sometimes adults say, “Ignore it,”
as if hurt has an off switch,
as if words cannot bruise under skin,
as if I have not already tried.
Ignoring is not a shield, it is a delay,
it comes back later, stronger and quieter.
It comes back when I am alone with myself,
it comes back like a replay I did not choose.

I am not weak because I feel it,
feeling means my brain is doing its job.
A fire alarm is loud because it matters,
pain is a message, not a failure.
My silence is not approval,
my silence is how I survive the moment.
And survival is not pretty, but it is real.
I am still here, so it worked.

They call me names, but names are lazy,
they use the same ones on different people.
That is how I know it is not personal,
it is just their usual tool.
They do not want truth, they want control,
truth takes effort, and they avoid effort.
They grab the first cruel word that fits,
then pretend it was clever.

If I could open their heads like cupboards,
I think I would find mess behind the doors.
Jealousy folded badly, anger shoved in,
fear that they will be seen as small.
A need to win that never ends,
a rulebook made of other people’s opinions,
and a heavy thing called shame,
they keep dropping on someone else.

They point at me to distract from themselves,
“Look at him,” so no one looks at them.
That is the trick, and it works too often.
It is easier to throw stones than to clean your hands,
it is easier to mock than to apologise,
it is easier to hurt than to grow up.
Their “power” is only borrowed,
it runs out the second nobody claps.

I wish I could say it does not change me,
but it does, and pretending would be another lie.
It makes me scan faces for danger,
it makes kindness feel suspicious at first.
It makes my chest tighten in crowded places,
it makes my thoughts race after a small sound.
It makes me practise replies I cannot speak,
it makes me write, because writing stays.

So this is my reply, in plain text:
I did not cause your cruelty by existing,
your cruelty comes from your own weak places.
Your cruelty is your work, not my fault.
If you feel empty, do not fill it with my pain.
If you feel scared, do not make me smaller.
If you want respect, learn what it is,
it never grows out of harm.

One day, you will meet your own reflection,
not glass, not a photo, not a filter.
The moment when jokes do not protect you,
the moment when people stop laughing along.
You will have to sit with what you did,
you will have to feel it without a target.
I will not be there to carry your dirt,
you will finally hold your own.

I am not your lesson dummy,
I am a person, full stop.
I can be quiet and still be strong,
I can be hurt and still be right.
I will not wear your shame for you,
I will keep my name for myself.
I will keep writing until it heals,
and I am not finished.