I shout it online where the silence is clear, While masking the daily exhaustion and fear. I don't tell a soul how I struggle and strain, To dodge the cheap judgment and casual pain. They think it’s a trend or a quirky design, Faking a disorder while you’re actually fine. They never look close at the machinery made, Or what it required to survive in the shade.
No savior appeared when I was four years old, No shelter to shield me from terror and cold. When nobody answered the silent distress, My mind built a fortress to handle the mess. When chaos was heavy and no one was near, The counting and prayers were the weapons against fear. It wasn't a flaw or a glitch in the mind, It was a small child using whatever she could find.
Built into my brain to survive in the dark, To monitor shadows and buffer the spark. They don’t just dissolve now that the time has passed, They stay in their roles as the guardians cast. So keep back your pity, I don't need your tears, You’ll never understand those cruel, monstrous years. I ask for respect for the armour I wear— The hard-earned survival that conquered despair.
I write unfiltered, raw and brutally honest poetry and prose on trauma, survival and living with BPD and OCD, which I’ve had since childhood.
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