“It's not that big of a deal.”
“It's not that big of a deal.”
You say it soft, like medicine,
Like I should swallow down the sting.
Like the cuts will close themselves,
Like my quiet’s just attention-seeking.
You fold your hands, you roll your eyes,
Say my storms are small, minimized.
You package pain in tidy lines —
“Not that big,” then you sign the lies.
And I keep counting all the times you said,
Told me to hush the noise inside my head.
Like I’m dramatic, like I’m weak,
Like my real is something you can tweak.
“It's not that big of a deal,” you say,
As if my nights are easy to unlace.
You call my fire “minor” and move away,
While I keep burning in the same place.
“It's not that big of a deal,” you say again,
And I want to know where your compassion went.
Is my pain a footnote in your pride?
Is my life a headline you’ll let slide?
You pass those phrases like they’re gentle,
But words like knives are still metal.
Every shrug a sentence heard,
Every “not that bad” another word.
You keep measuring me with your scale,
Counting storms like they’re details.
But the metric you use ain’t mine —
So watch me break that thin-lined spine.
How many times do I catalogue hurt,
Only to hear your casual verdict?
Like my collapse is an afterthought,
A problem small enough to be bought.
“It's not that big of a deal,” you say,
While I keep tallying what you erase.
You minimize until my edges fray,
And then act surprised at my face.
“It's not that big of a deal,” you repeat,
Like it’s fine if I muddle through the bleed.
But if this is nothing in your eyes,
Then tell me straight — how much is a life?
“It's not that big of a deal.”
(You keep saying it.)
“So it’s not a big deal,” — is that right?
“So it’s not a big deal if I hurt myself?”
“So it’s not a big deal if I stop waking up?”
Is that what you call small? Tell me that.
You make my pain a trivia game,
Score it low, then look away.
You want me quiet so your world stays neat,
But what you call “small” is a murder on repeat.
If my life’s a line on your list of things to grade,
Then by your logic, go ahead and aid
Your apathy — keep counting me out,
I’ll keep being loud until you feel the doubt.
“It's not that big of a deal,” you said,
But I’m done pretending that I’m okay in bed.
If nothing’s wrong, then why am I scared?
If nothing matters, why am I here?
“It's not that big of a deal,” you cry,
But you don’t have to face the reasons why.
So answer me now—be honest, be real:
Is my hurt “not a big deal”?
“It's not that big of a deal.”
“It's not that big of a deal.”