The Word
The Word creates a rip, a tear
A gash through the fabric of reality
Your reality, her reality, their reality
My reality sits in a place of privilege.
With searing edges that burn those nearest
Accidental wounds inflicted by the word
Or the lack thereof.
Ahimsa
Do no harm. Do no harm. Do know harm
I know harm. Know I harm. I know I harm.
I harm myself. I love-hate the harming of myself
The anesthesia of self-harming harms me,
But the original hurt, hurts more without it.
I need my anesthesia.
My harm protects me from you.
Please don’t tell me to do no harm.
Your misinformed kindness is killing me.
Diagnose This,
Diagnosis.
Each term an audible knife edge,
Slicing up a piece of me
To study
The pieces of me
Fractured for
You to
Label
Tell me what's wrong with me
What is ‘me’?
Am I wrong to be me?
I knew that.
You said that.
But what am I?
Telling me that
Won’t heal me.
I wish you would see ME.
All the interdimensional pieces of me.
Here.
These are my shoes,
Now can you see?
A.N Connell
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