Over Corrected Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

They whisper "too much."
They murmur "over corrected."

You listen once.
Then the air shifts.
Their words bounce,
fall into rooms
that do not belong to them.

You were carved small
to fit the hollow of others' hands.
You were silenced
so they could hear themselves.

Now every edge you claim
is a boundary.

Every echo you bend
is a law of your own making.
Every refusal is a lantern
to light the space
you will not yield.

Let them call it over corrected.
Better that
than the world dancing
in your face again,
drawing maps on your skin,
writing leases on your bones.

You are calibrated to yourself.
Each heartbeat a compass.
Each glance a decree.
You move in angles
they cannot measure.

The air around you is deliberate.

The steps you take
leave imprint
and expectation behind.
You have chosen precision
over placation.
You have chosen sovereignty
over apology.

And if they call it excess,
let them.

Better to be excess
than absence.
Better to be
storm perfected in its own orbit
than shadow in theirs.