They tell me it’s gonna be okay
They tell me that it shouldn’t hurt
That pain is a four-letter word and it’s
Only a measure of external abuse

They tell me I’m a creature of privilege
That if I’ve never know the fear of
fighting for my life
I am not permitted to know the fear of
nearly taking my life

They tell me that I will never find love
Little do they know, I already have
And it scared me so badly, I left it behind
Those memories more haunting than the ghosts of my scars

And my scars, they are hidden
Buried deep in my flesh
Unnoticed, unbroken, a distant piece of the past
But they still bind me the in chains of suppression

And when I’m all alone in a room full of people
My chest constricts tighter than a venomous snake
And I cannot escape the thoughts of
overwhelming introspection

My breathe is unsteady
I’m desperate for a taste of fresh air
Hoping that it may upend my broken conversation
And cause my hands to stop their shaking

They tell me to pay attention
That they don’t know whether I am listening
Or losing myself to a world of my own creation
Uninterested in the weather or the pictures on their phone

But, I think they are worried about me
Not about my brokenness, but their own
They worry that I will say something powerful
That my mind will work faster than their simple ones could even fathom

They tell me that I’m not good enough,
But maybe, I’m just too good for them
Maybe, they tell me not to hurt
because they don’t want me to show them what it feels like

Maybe my brokenness scares them too much
Maybe empathy is too straining on their shallow, stable lives
Maybe my pain is three letters too long for their one-letter lives.