I was angry because I intended to live - By Salem Youngblood

Written By: Salem Youngblood

Category: Poetry

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the compelling poetry cycle titled "I was angry because I intended to live," Salem Youngblood delivers a raw and introspective exploration of identity and resilience. A participant in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, Youngblood’s work is a significant contribution to the Poetry category. Through a nuanced examination of personal struggle and societal expectations, the poems resonate with themes of self-acceptance and the relentless pursuit of authenticity.

About the Work

Salem Youngblood's "I was angry because I intended to live" navigates the turbulent waters of self-discovery and defiance against imposed norms. The cycle's vivid imagery and emotional depth vividly portray the struggle of living authentically in a world that demands conformity. Youngblood’s work is a powerful testament to the strength found in embracing one's true self, offering readers a poignant reflection on the intersection of anger and hope.

I was angry because I intended to live

Original Submission by Salem Youngblood

I WAS ANGRY BECAUSE I INTENDED TO LIVE

A five-poem cycle

I. THEY SAID I WAS TOO MUCH

There was always something wrong with me.

This was explained often.

At dinner tables.

In bedrooms.

In cars where I learned

there is nowhere to run

when the doors are moving.

There was always something.

Too sensitive.

Too loud.

Too quiet.

Too angry.

Too frightened.

Too particular about the seams in my clothes,

the sound of chewing,

the lights above me buzzing

like trapped insects trying to crawl

through my skull.

Too much.

That was the favorite.

Too much.

As though somewhere there existed

a measuring cup for acceptable girls

and God had poured me carelessly.

I did not know the word autistic yet.

I knew difficult.

I knew dramatic.

I knew selfish.

I knew—

What is wrong with you?

I knew how to study a face

before answering a question.

I knew footsteps.

I knew which footsteps meant silence

and which meant disappear

and which meant make yourself useful

and which meant there was nothing

I could become quickly enough

to prevent what came next.

My nervous system became a smoke alarm

in a house that was actually burning,

and everyone complained

about the noise.

Even my friends.

Especially my friends.

At first they asked,

Are you okay?

Then—

Are you sure?

Then—

Again?

Eventually

they stopped asking.

There were parties I learned about afterward.

Photographs of everyone smiling.

Inside jokes born in rooms

where there had once been a place for me.

I watched friendship become archaeology.

Here was the fossil of an invitation.

Here was the skeleton of a sleepover.

Here was evidence

that once

someone had wanted me nearby.

I had become exhausting.

Depression made poor entertainment.

Anxiety ruined the mood.

Trauma did not know when to shut up

and let everyone have a good time.

And autism—

though none of us had its name—

made me terrible at pretending otherwise.

So they removed the unpleasant thing.

Me.

Simple.

Clean.

Almost clinical.

And I began believing

that perhaps love was merely tolerance

with a timer attached.

That everyone who said

I'm here

meant

until you become inconvenient.

I became smaller.

Then smaller.

Then smaller still.

But somehow,

even after carving pieces from myself

and leaving them beneath everyone's feet

like offerings,

I remained

too much.

II. AN ANIMAL LEARNS THE SHAPE OF ITS CAGE

Fine.

If I was too much,

I would become unbearable.

There is a particular rage

that comes from discovering

you were punished for symptoms

of wounds other people gave you.

I carried mine behind my teeth.

You wanted pleasant.

I was surviving.

You wanted funny.

I was counting exits.

You wanted spontaneous.

I needed to know where we were going,

who would be there,

how long we would stay,

whether I could leave,

whether the room would be loud,

because my body had mistaken existence

for an emergency.

You called this difficult.

You called this annoying.

You called this ruining everything.

And when the abuse followed me

into every room

like a second nervous system,

you decided my suffering

was becoming repetitive.

Imagine that.

Imagine watching someone drown

and becoming irritated

because she keeps asking for air.

So yes.

I became angry.

Not beautiful anger.

Not feminine anger.

Not the marketable kind

printed beneath flowers

and sold on canvas.

I mean ugly anger.

Jaw-clenching anger.

Door-slamming anger.

The kind that makes people say,

See? This is why nobody wants to be around you.

And perhaps they were right.

Perhaps I became difficult to love.

But no one asks

what happened to the animal

before it learned to bite.

No one asks

how many hands entered the cage.

How many struck.

How many withdrew.

How many promised gentleness

before reaching for the throat.

Eventually,

I stopped waiting

to discover which kind of hand

you possessed.

I bit them all.

And then wondered

why nobody touched me.

III. NOTHING CAN ABANDON WHAT CANNOT BE REACHED

There is safety in becoming unpleasant.

People underestimate this.

If I hurt you first,

you cannot surprise me.

If I tell you to fuck off,

you cannot announce someday

that I am exhausting.

If I never need you,

you cannot enjoy

being needed

before deciding I am too heavy.

So I became cruel efficiently.

Not because I hated everyone.

Because somewhere inside me

was still that ridiculous animal

waiting beside the door.

Still listening for footsteps.

Still hoping.

And hope had become humiliating.

So I killed it whenever it stirred.

I stopped trying.

Stopped explaining.

Stopped translating myself

into something digestible.

I made loneliness deliberate

because chosen starvation

felt better than being denied food.

I told myself people were stupid.

People were selfish.

People were temporary.

Love was chemistry.

Friendship was convenience.

Kindness was merely cruelty

waiting until you trusted it enough

to turn your back.

Nothing mattered.

Nobody mattered.

I certainly didn't.

And nihilism became

a warm little room.

No windows.

No doors.

No expectations.

I could finally sleep there.

Sometimes I heard laughter outside.

Sometimes I wondered

what it would feel like

to belong somewhere again.

Then I remembered.

And pushed another piece of furniture

against the door.

IV. THE YEARS TAUGHT ME MY NAME

Time did not heal me.

I hate that sentence.

Time does nothing.

Time watches.

Time stood with its hands in its pockets

while I learned to survive.

I was homeless.

But I was free.

There is a strange obscenity

in discovering that uncertainty

can feel safer than home.

I had less,

and somehow

I could breathe.

Nobody was waiting

to punish the wrong expression.

Nobody demanded an explanation

for why a sound hurt.

Nobody accused me

of manipulation

when words stopped coming.

And slowly,

I began studying

the creature I had been taught to hate.

Me.

Autism.

The word arrived

like someone finally switching on the lights

inside a room I had inhabited

my entire life.

Oh.

There was a reason.

There was a reason

I rehearsed conversations.

A reason certain sounds

became physical objects inside my body.

A reason routines felt sacred.

A reason interruption could feel

like someone had grabbed the steering wheel

while I was driving.

A reason I loved things

with an intensity other people

found embarrassing.

A reason exhaustion sometimes made language

leave me entirely.

There were names.

There were explanations.

There were other people.

I learned coping mechanisms.

I learned what overwhelmed meant

before overwhelmed became catastrophe.

I learned leaving a room

was allowed.

Headphones were allowed.

Silence was allowed.

Routine was allowed.

Saying no was allowed.

I began building accommodations

out of whatever scraps I possessed.

Tiny shelters.

Tiny mercies.

And something furious happened:

I improved.

Not because someone finally fixed me.

Because I stopped treating myself

like something requiring repair.

The rage remained.

Of course it remained.

But now it had direction.

For the first time,

I wondered whether anger

could build things

instead of merely burning them.

V. THE FIRST PERSON WHO DID NOT ASK ME TO SHRINK

Then there was her.

Older than me.

Strange in familiar ways.

AuDHD.

A word that sounded almost ridiculous

considering how much suffering

had been required

before I learned it could belong

to people like us.

She had her own rituals.

Her own tangents.

Her own ways of losing time.

Her own ways of finding it again.

We could interrupt each other

and somehow neither of us disappeared.

We could talk too much.

We could become excited.

We could forget the original subject

and travel six conversations away

before discovering it again.

Sometimes my trauma entered the room

before I did.

She did not flee.

Sometimes I became quiet.

She did not demand noise.

Sometimes I needed reassurance

for something another person

might have considered obvious.

She gave it.

No invoice.

No punishment.

No sigh heavy enough

to remind me I was work.

And when I apologized—

because I always apologized—

she would look at me

as though I had confessed

to a crime that did not exist.

Stop apologizing for existing.

I didn't understand.

Not at first.

Existing had always seemed

like the original offense.

But she kept showing me.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Until one day

I laughed too loudly

and did not apologize.

I talked too long

about something I loved

and did not apologize.

I needed clarification

and did not apologize.

I said,

I can't do that today,

and waited for punishment.

None came.

Something inside me

began trembling.

Not fear.

Something much more dangerous.

Hope.

I had believed rage

was what remained

after hope died.

I was wrong.

Rage was what kept its body warm.

All those years

I thought I wanted the world to burn,

some small animal inside me

had actually been guarding a match.

Not for destruction.

For light.

Because beneath every

fuck you

was

I deserved better.

Beneath every slammed door—

I deserved safety.

Beneath every year spent alone—

I deserved company that did not require my disappearance.

Beneath every time I refused

to become pleasant for someone's comfort—

I deserved to exist whole.

That was the secret.

That was why the anger never died.

Because neither did I.

I was never furious

because nothing mattered.

I was furious

because something did.

I did.

And after years

of being told I was too much,

I finally understood:

perhaps I was.

Too much for the people

who required my silence.

Too much for the rooms

built to contain me.

Too much for anyone

who could only love me

after subtracting pieces.

So I stopped subtracting.

Let them choke on the arithmetic.

I am still angry.

I hope I remain angry

for a very long time.

Not the anger that eats me.

The anger that feeds the furnace.

The anger that says

again.

get up.

again.

The anger that looked at everything

that tried to make me disappear

and answered:

No.

You mistook my rage

for evidence that you had destroyed me.

You should have recognized it

for what it was.

Fuel.

And somewhere inside the furnace,

small,

impossible,

and refusing to die,

was hope.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event celebrating the art of storytelling through poetry and prose. The competition invites participants worldwide to share their unique perspectives and creative expressions, fostering a global community of writers and poets. It is a vibrant platform that highlights diverse voices and the transformative power of the written word.

Thank you, Salem Youngblood, for your profound contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with "I was angry because I intended to live." Your work offers an inspiring glimpse into the journey of self-understanding and resilience. We are grateful for your participation and for sharing your powerful voice with the world.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.