They use soft gentle tones,
as if the scream of already known truth
is feared to burst my eardrums
and shatter my seemingly delicate china glass
of a soul.
I am not as broken as they think I am.
My mind may be frayed in places but
never do the patches become too worn and the seams
unravel and burst against my will.
They can throw all their unintelligent thoughts at me
and mistaken my non-catching for clumsiness.
But I have myself by my side and that is all that is needed.
Pity is a misguide and a sentence of the weak,
and I know I am better.
They are wrong, and
I am strong.