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Writer's pictureDes Art

To be Understood

Wishing I could afford

The intimacy of being understood.

But they don’t see my face,

They don’t say my name

They don’t feel my pain.

Here I’m just another body walking around,

And people  wonder why I hate this town.

Always questioned, always off.

Never right in my mental blight,

of having neurodivergenceies .

I need to change to be like them,

A cookie cutter that I just can’t fit.

I’m tired of explaining and saying

“Wait but” and hoping I’ll get a spot.

The ticks on my tongue lash violently at their minds as I’m falling apart,

Falling asleep, falling down.

Picking myself up, putting it together,

pulling bandages tight.

I feel like I’m just trapped in my mind,

And no one sees me banging

On the pupils in my eyes.

The little girl inside, just wants her emotions valorized.

If the answers are so clear,

Then why do they always fall through my hands?



dh 12.17.22

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