They call me nice.
They call me positive.
They call me happy.
Some even whisper naive
like it’s a soft spot on my skin.
But let me tell you something
I wasn’t born with a smile stitched to my face.
I wasn’t raised by gentle hands or warm mornings.
There was a time my own thoughts
felt heavier than my body.
A time my shoulders hung low
like a willow tree tired of carrying its own branches.
I have cried tears
that could drown whole chapters of my life.
Tears that left my eyes swollen,
and my heart cracked open
not by love,
but by the violence of simply being alive.
There were days I couldn’t rise
even when I wanted to,
days when disappointment slept beside me,
and harsh words echoed louder
than any hope I tried to hold onto.
So no,
nice didn’t come naturally.
I carved it out of stone.
I built it from the ruins.
Life wasn’t nice to me,
so I learned to become the thing I never received.
I’m not positive because life is soft
I’m positive because I’ve lived in the dark too long and I refuse to spread it.
I’ve lived in places in my mind
that still makes my stomach turn
just remembering them.
So now,
I choose the higher frequency.
I choose to enjoy the sight of fire flies and beautiful skies
I choose the light.
Not because I’m blind
but because I’ve seen too much.
I am nice.
I am happy.
I am hopeful
But don’t mistake me for naive.
I know exactly what life can do.
I’ve just chosen to rise anyway.
U