They don’t take you seriously when the illness is in your mind.
They want scars to be visible. Bandages. Blood.
Not breakdowns. Not silence. Not the kind of exhaustion that makes your bones feel like rusted metal.
You say, “I’m not okay.”
They say, “Try harder.”
The heart can break a hundred times and still get told it’s just overthinking.
And if you're a woman, they'll call your fire rebellion, not healing.
But I see you.
Those who feel too much, scream internally, still wake up and try.
That’s not weakness. That’s resistance.
And no, I will not obey.
Not a system that worships suppression.
Not a culture that teaches daughters to shrink.
Not a world that charges you for healing and calls it help.
So I write. I unravel. I remember.
Because clarity doesn’t make life easier — it makes it real.
And reality?
It’s already poetic enough when you’re still standing.
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