The people that I always tend to be--
Uh, well, to be it lightly--
Better than,
Always assume I'm sheltered.

That I cannot possibly be so kind,
I cannot possibly be so sweet,
I cannot possibly be so, ugh, cute,
And have had something terrible happen to me.

I always love correcting them.
"You're right," I begin.
My voice sweet like honey.
"I have no had something terrible happen to me."
I go on to inform them that it's
"I've had multiple somethings. With an S. Plural."

They usually scoff, and that's when my laugh becomes bitter,
And sly.
Not like dark chocolate,
No, still too sweet.

Bitter like dry swallowing too many pills because the memories won't let up.
Bitter like the glue on the back of the tape that's over your mouth.
Bitter like the smell of sawdust.
Bitter like pain.

They assume they can read me,
Know me.
That I'm this nice, shy girl.

And they're not wrong.

But I'm shy because of my Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
And I'm nice,
Because I refused to let my C-PTSD taint who I am.
I refuse to let it make me cruel.

But these people,
Who have proven by their actions and words
That my occasionally self-loathing, mentally-ill self
Is actually better than,
Love to downplay me.
Love to call me sheltered.

But I guarantee
If they have been through
What I had been through
They wouldn't be half as
Kind
Sweet
And, UGH, cute.

And that in itself
Is a strength.