Oh, how I wear my stigma, my stigmata, on my too tight skin, this canvas in which I am wrapped, abandoned by the artist before the first stroke of the brush. I am different and marked as such, marked and distinguishable by the colouring of invisible ink
These mental marks of distinction (degradation)(derision), this pragmatic emblem, this emblematic symbolism, this mark cut into my bone, I AM NOT ONE OF YOU. Step back, back away. I may have some evil alien infection that I could spread to the crowd with one careless cough.
These marks of my shame I hide from the outside world. And yet, these invisible marks shine through my skin in the very worst ways during my most awful days.
A crown of thorns that I wear underneath my cap. Nobody worries if they can’t see you bleed. How quickly we dismiss the pain that others feel deep in their hearts. How quickly we laugh off replies of “not good†to our “how are you doing?†If we know the only acceptable answer, why do we pretend to ask it as a question?
Minced meat,
mincing words,
break the news gently
breaking bread with myself
breaking my heart all over again
Man cannot live on bread alone
Man cannot live by himself, alone
Oh, how I wish I could just read my mind, if only I knew what I was thinking, maybe then I would be able to get the better of myself.
As it is, I just settle for whatever part of myself is available these days.