“Tit for Tat. Splat. Fuck That.” “No More Explaining”

Some pieces aren’t written from anger,  they’re written from understanding. This is one of those pieces. After a lifetime of being nudged, shaped, or boxed in by people who misunderstood empathy for weakness, I finally chose to speak with clarity instead of silence.

This prose is dedicated to anyone who has ever felt controlled, drained, or molded by someone who couldn’t see their full humanity. It’s a gentle release, a boundary set without bitterness, and a reminder that authenticity is worth protecting at any age.

If you’ve ever had your energy siphoned, your voice minimized, or your spirit shrink‑wrapped, this piece is for you too.

Spoken‑Word Intro

[Before I begin, let me peel off the last layer of shrink wrap you tried to wrap around my life.

I’m not here to fit your box, your checklist,

your narrow little measuring tape

 that only knows money, miles, and misery.

I’m here to speak from the marrow from the part of me that lived, learned, loved, and refused to fold.

I’m here to tell you that your judgment is a hallway

I don’t walk down anymore.

Your accusations are echoes that don’t reach me.

 Your labels slide off like cheap stickers in the summer heat.

I’ve lived too many lives to shrink for anyone.

I’ve seen too many universes to pretend that life is flat.

I’ve carried too much truth to apologize for my existence.

So, before the poem begins, before the rhythm kicks in, before the words spill out, understand this:

I am done explaining.

 I am done shrinking.

I am done being wrapped tight for your comfort.

This is my voice.

 My breath.

My boundary.

My freedom.

Now listen. 

“Tit for Tat. Splat. Fuck That.”

“No More Explaining”

No More Shrink Wrap

You asked me why I didn’t make more money.

Why didn’t I travel the globe.

 Why didn’t I stack my life with trophies, proof, and dollar signs as if without money,

 I never lived at all.

But listen.

I am old.

 I am told.

I have rubbed shoulders with famous people,

stood in Hollywood lights,

earned degrees at 52 and

again at 76 because learning is my rebellion.

You told me I was on drugs.

You told me leisure was my life.

 You told me if I worked more,

 I’d have more money.

Well, honey, peachy dandy,

 I’m bored.

Bored of explaining myself.

 Bored of defending my existence.

Bored of lies, hate, and your shrinking lens.

I am a good person.

 Eccentric.

A creator of animation,

 a lover of sun, moon, stars,

 and the omnipotent Universe.

You call me lazy.

You call me crazy.

You call me flat.

 I call it freedom.

I believe in universes layered like silk,

 in souls returning,

in the cosmic hum that threads through everything.

I refuse to shrink for your comfort.

I refuse to explain my joy.

I refuse to apologize for my existence.

I am laughter.

I am tears.

 I am breath.

 I am an empath dreaming of peace.

Your judgment is a door I no longer walk through.

You call me crazy.

You call life flat.

 I say fuck that.

You want combat with my soul?

 My life?

 Just like that, a spat?

Fuck that.

No more explaining who I am.

No more denying what I love.

No more disguises to make you comfortable.

Just live and let live.

No corruption.

No accusation.

No blame.

You say it’s too late.

You want to seal my fate.

My reputation?

Fuck that. Tit for tat. Splat. Fuck that.

Good morning. Cold pizza. Coffee. Riverside heat.]