We have stripped rooms
But full minds
We rattle when we walk
With full medication charts
We hear voices so loud
Yet ours are so hushed
Voices dampened with bad experiences
We are withdrawn, afar, hold mistrust.
We are the silent sufferers
But can’t stay quiet for long
We are the quietest of them all
Until we hit breaking point.
We are the shaken cans of soda
The pressure cookers hitting their limit
We are the victims of this cruel evil illness
We are the puzzles with pieces that don’t fit.
We are the compassionate yet self abusive
We value honesty and trust
And yet have said every single array of lies and excuses.
We are the numbers to the government
Being told to value ourselves as people
We live in a violent paradox
Where merely surviving feels unmanageable.
With the soul of a five year old, but the bones of an eighty year old.
We are the trapped,
Searching for freedom
In an illness that comes with the biggest catch of all.
To be free and happy and seemingly ‘okay’
You have to surrender your soul.
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