Special is the word they use when they talk about me

They assume that my diagnosis fully defines me

Sometimes I wish I could only be heard and not seen

That’s what I often think about when I daydream

Chronic illness isn’t
Some beautiful
Pale
Girl sitting under a tree,
Book in hand.
It’s no romantic tragedy
Or heartfelt tear-jerker
It’s
Sitting on the floor of your bedroom
2 am
Trying not to cry because
You wanted to be in bed three hours ago
Your body didn’t.
It’s
Obsessively tracking every
Food and drink
Symptom and medication
It’s
Juggling four doctors and work
All at once
It’s
Trying not to *****
Struggling to stand
Fighting
To exist

What good is it to judge me?
What do you see?
Perhaps a bitter young lady
In the presence of thee, I
May be a blind - but I
Once could see; pictures of
Sunsets, handsome faces
And much more.

No I am not blind!
Though I appear so
I still see faint pictures -
Of gatherings for
Christmas, Easter even -
New Years dinners.

You taunt me, your endless
Repetition, 'Bitter blind bat' - lo
Your torment does me no harm
Anymore but rather jostles -
Me to hold tight to what
My people's faces look like.

you make me utter words
for you, my love
cannot get a single word
whenever i speak in full sentences

I am like a saint,
being kind to others is me,
Caused I was abused.