There are parts of my brain,
people call sick,
inside things can’t configure – to the accepted standard.
There were times when fitting me into a box,
was a main concern.
Or blame – who’s left her out too long
too often, too little.
How about inside,
thoughts, dreams, the others in here?
Feelings which overwhelm,
sensory information begins to concentrate,
like compressed gas in a cylinder.
Pain is all that can be felt,
physical surges through my spinal cord,
to my brain – the host.
Being born with this disposition,
having an environment devastated.
Parents – the same chemistry
Clueless in their own damnation
However happily participating
in their haphazard irony.
Not typical, not normal,
they said and continue to claim.
“she’s weird, she doesn’t look me in the eye”
they whisper whilst backing away.
Thought of as rude, too direct,
judgements made habitually,
privileges left unchecked.
My cognition brought into question,
By those who never had to confabulate.
The world is not odd to me,
as it is all I can see,
you need to cure me.
Not trusting my words and memories,
Art and poetry by Charlotte Farhan.
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