Tic

 Tic

A spark under skin,
a bird trapped in the throat,
a violin string
pulled too tight—
then let go.

A shoulder shrugs without asking.
A word flies loose like shrapnel.
You think I’m broken.
I think I’m fluent
in a language you never tried to learn.

You call it strange.
I call it being 

But he —
blue vest, stiff jaw,
radio crackle —
he calls it aggression.
Non-compliance.
A threat.

He doesn’t see the twitch,
the tremble, the tremor of trying
not to be seen.
He sees disruption.
A reason to tighten the grip.
To press me to the ground
because I moved wrong.
Sounded wrong.
Looked like something
he was taught to fear.

This body —
so full of uninvited music —
is not a weapon.
But he’s never been taught
to hear the difference.