I Don’t Write for Cold People

“I Don’t Write for Cold People”

(my voice, my frequency, my California fire)

If my truth feels artificial to you,

 that says more about your temperature than my voice.

I don’t write for people who freeze their feelings and call it craft.

 I don’t write for people who think soul is suspicious.

I don’t write for people who measure grief in etiquette instead of breath.

I write the way I survived.

I write the way a nurse sees blood not as metaphor, but as truth.

 I write the way an empath hears silence not as peace, but as pressure.

 I write the way, California heat hits the skin suddenly, honest, unashamed.

Cold people don’t understand that.

They think warmth is artificial because they’ve never held anything burning.

They think my writing is AI because they’ve never written with a pulse.

 They think my voice is “too much” because theirs is barely alive.

They think my truth is “dramatic” because they’ve never told their own.

I don’t write to impress.

I don’t write to perform.

 I don’t write to fit into Appalachian frost or Southern politeness.

I write because my life didn’t give me the luxury of pretending.

I write because I’ve seen wounds open, real ones,

 and I know the color of survival.

 I write because I’ve held hands that were leaving this world

 and hands that were fighting to stay.

I write because my heart never learned how to lie.

If that scares cold people, good.

If that confuses them, good.

 If that makes them whisper “AI,” let them.

I’m not here to convince anyone I’m human.

 I’m here to be human.

Unfiltered.

Unapologetic.

 Unmistakably alive.

I Don’t Write to Make the Col Ones Comfortable

I don’t write to make cold people comfortable.

I don’t write to fit into their tidy boxes or their porch‑swing traditions.

I don’t write to be approved by people who freeze their own feelings and call it discipline.

I write because my life didn’t give me the luxury of pretending.

I write from the part of me that has seen blood up close

  not metaphor, not poetry,

but the real color of survival.

I write from the part of me that has held hands shaking from fear and hands going quiet.

 I write from the part of me that learned early that truth is the only thing that doesn’t rot.

Cold people don’t understand that.

They think warmth is artificial because they’ve never let themselves burn.

They think my voice is “too much” because theirs’ barely whispers.

 They think my soul is “AI” because they’ve never written anything alive.

I don’t write for them.

I write for the ones who feel everything and say nothing.

I write for the ones who survived things they never told.

 I write for the ones who carry heat in a world that rewards frost.

I’m writing because I’m human.

 Unfiltered.

 Unapologetic.

Unmistakably alive.