Stigma (Rough draft)




One day I decided

to tell the world

I wasn’t okay because

it’s just too much energy

to pretend

or care.

For the first time, I understood

the word neuroatypical,

and said it, above a whisper.


You explained to me

the consequences: exile, stares,

whispers behind my back.

No one needs to know about

your panic attacks.

No one will understand

why you think differently in a crowd.

No one wants to know that

you take medication.

No one wants to be seen with you

and your “issues”.


Then so be it.

Even if it meant I would lose

my image,

the right side of the world,

and even you.


Note: just a late night thought on paper.



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