A Sickness Called Sensitivity
by someone who feels too much in a world that feels too little
Why does my sensitivity feel like a sickness,
in a world where indifference is the norm?
Where silence is mistaken for strength,
and numbness wears a crown?
I cry at things no one sees—
a fading light, a forgotten word,
a cartoon character breaking down
like they were someone I knew.
I carry the weight of things not mine,
like a sponge soaked in every passing sorrow.
And when I speak, it sounds like too much—
too soft, too slow, too raw.
They say I should toughen up,
but what if I wasn't meant to harden?
What if I was born
to feel the edges they sanded off?
If my chest aches with every beauty,
and breaks with every cruelty,
does that make me fragile—
or just fully alive?
So I ask again—
not in bitterness, but in wonder:
Why does my sensitivity feel like a sickness,
in a world where indifference is the norm?
