Titration
by Crystal Craig

They tell me to titrate.

To measure emotion in drops,

like acid in a lab—

volatile, dangerous, contained.

They say it’s safer this way.

Kinder to the parts of me that flinch

at the sound of my own heartbeat.

But I am not a chemistry set.

I am not meant to be doled out

in milliliters of manageable sadness.

I am thunder held in a mason jar,

lightning in the root cellar

that never got to crack open the sky.

I have always titrated.

I have choked on half-sobs,

laughed quieter than I needed,

muffled joy, restrained grief,

for fear of being too loud,

too much,

too tender.

So no, this advice doesn’t sit right.

It settles like a stone on my lungs—

clinical, cautious, disconnected

from the animal in me

that needs to howl.

When I obey,

something inside me screams—not just in protest

but in mourning

for the thousand times I chose safety

over wholeness.

For the sacred storms I canceled

because others might get wet.

But I am a force of nature,

not a faucet.

And I no longer want

my wildness

to apologize for its weather.

I want to laugh and scream and sob

and not brace for fallout—

not scan the room to see who’s frightened,

who’s disappointed,

who’s quietly rearranging themselves

so I don’t spill onto their rug.

I don’t just want to be survived.

I want to be welcomed.

Cheered on.

Met with dancing and drumming and open arms

when I finally crack open

and let it all through.

I want the world to say:

“Ah, finally. You’re free.”

And then breathe with me,

not despite me.

With me.

Can I count you in?