(original poetry about mental illness vs physical illness) if i said cancer, they’d whisper softer they would even tilt their heads like grief was a flower they knew how to water. they’d ask what stage, and offer their condolences light candles like prayers might help. but when i say i struggle to stay alive in my own mind, they look for the exit in my eyes. they hear “mental” and suddenly i’m selfish, attention-starved, a story they don’t want to sit through. and god, i feel guilty for making them picture tumors when all i meant was that i have to fight to not cut myself open just to breathe. i didn't want their pity. i wanted to be understood but now i just want to disappear quietly before they say "at least it's not terminal." as if waking up every day with a reason not to isn't a slow kind of dying. #mentalhealth ❤️