Stigmatter (original poem)

Just me and a dozen therapists, collectively.
Weekly, we meet together in my hexagonal room,
And they see through these eyes.
Angle: Tight. Pull focus, zoom.

Trapped in a fabricated reality.
I'm mislabeled property, probably
I demonstrate the obvious not to properly.

The patients all scream,
"Go help her!" But it's too soon.
None of them have seen the mischief she can do
When she operates her brain unconventionally.
Guerrilla tactics come out to play, to say the least.
And don't trigger her with the mention of Gaslighting,
Telepathy, or precognitive, lucid dreams.

So, I spend my time avoiding perceived problems,
Embracing bondage, and avoiding bonding.
Not knowing boundaries or exactly where to sit.
How loud or soft to speak and how slow or quick .
To move is another entirely obnoxious mystery.

Imagine what it's like to approximate me
With the view they think is open wide,
But it's only the visible spectrum, right?
Some need a chainsaw to realize
That the circumference of the brain is not the size of the mind.

Thinking back, packing on the memories,
They added up and began to straight smother me.
Then I realized my soul does not need to breathe.
I dug my way out and began to see clearly.
So, I move differently now. I know this.
Loving life, changing regard of my imaginary strife.

Blooms are all around me and their petals bloom with clean blossoms, too.
Smile smart as I watch this occur and the plumage
Of the factories burning fast, snap me back into my seat like a
Theoretical umbilical cord tuning the E string.

I realized that my work here is not done.
So, I became thankful and decided
That I must press on a bit longer.
The only lyric my voice shakes
On repeat with pain and blame
on my body is
"Even that which kills me, makes me stronger".

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Thanks for reading,
x1018