There’s something deeply isolating
about feeling
all alone
alongside someone tethered to your heart —
or instead, perhaps, your soul.

Late December,
when the trees are blanketed
in fresh snow,
the cold, harsh tone of a loved one
doesn’t quite suit the warmth
and childlike nostalgia
twinkling from the Christmas tree in my peripheral.

You “listen” but do not hear —
it sours the aroma of nutmeg drifting
all around me,
clinging to my skin like honey,
like a leech.

The tree lights—
blurred like the lines at which we rally words—
offer solace
I refuse.
As the edges of the room soften,
I welcome the distance.

Percussion blooms in my chest,
a flush born of connection
becomes a steady sting—
burning trails of fire beneath my skin.
A fire that does not warm,
but incinerates.
Does not nourish,
but devours.

If I pour my essence onto paper,
sprawl myself across the page like watercolor,
will I finally be relieved of the fear of
not being seen?
If my chest cracks,
will someone let the light in?
Will I be illuminated?

My lips are sewn shut, it seems.
I tried to break free —
But silence felt safer.

I stopped listening to her, anyway.
I didn’t mean to, but I can’t hear
her words
through the hammering in my head.

No one will ever truly understand you.

Blurred lights swell,
overtaking my vision completely
until I can no longer
see
or be seen.

No one will ever truly understand you.
Actually, that’s not true.
I do.

And so,
when the lights return to focus,
I will choose to see myself,
hear myself,
breathe myself.
I will gather each misunderstood fragment
and emerge
a mended and mesmerizing mosaic,
and I will let that
be
enough.

The coffee table is where it all began

The wooden coffee table with its steel legs

And cracked edges

You let me “borrow” it

And I ended up keeping it until 4 years later when we moved to a different city together

The coffee table I think of had a chess board inside that I never chose to play on

The coffee table I think of never had tea or even a coffee cup on it, not even once

What it did have was:

Stains of juice

Blood from ouchies

Food crumbs from the nights we’d get high and stuff our faces with McDoubles and fries

Dents from the nights we’d fight, and you trashed the house with your jealousy and anger

Even deeper cracks that formed from the high-pitched screams of laughing children and screaming adults

Two adults living in depression and anxiety together

Finding peace in each other even when we couldn’t really stand one another

I guess I really miss that coffee table.

But missing that coffee table means I have to let you back in

Missing that coffee table means going through all the things we went through before

Missing that coffee table means giving my entire self and being crushed and shoved back into the pits of hell again and this time not being able to make it back out

Missing that coffee table must not be in my life path

And so I think missing that coffee table just means I need a new one

We often hear, don’t judge a book,
The cover image can be mistook.
Within the pages, motives dwell,
Our misconceptions soon dispel.

The same holds true for the mien on my face,
One glance, you determine, too often in haste.
Assuming I’m grumpy, or weary, or sad,
Eyebrows are furrowed, but I am not mad.

My eyes are squinty, the corners are creased,
Downward twist of my mouth, and you tag me a beast.
That I don’t really care, what you try to convey,
You turn from me silently, then walk away.

Involuntary, I have no control,
It’s the way my face hangs, my muscles they loll.
On the surface, a grimace, a scowl, or a sneer,
Within I am pondering all that I hear.

Don’t read me wrong, appearance deceives,
Beyond the facade, my interest, perceive.
A smile on my lips, eyes open wide,
Is what’s truly happening on the inside.

To the black sheep, hear our ode:
This is the sacred art of letters pieced together like a puzzle
For the ones whose thoughts seep into vocal chords as they boil up, overflow and spill out the mouth with waves of emotion
For the ones that somewhere along the way, the words and points we try to make get entangled into a ball of yarn.. alongside our heart’s sentiments
Fellow black sheep,
I see you, as you detangle and pull at each string, like it’s a perfected instrument
We yearn for our prose and our voices engulfed by flames, to be heard by the world so we can stitch together the wounds of society’s brokenness
For we are the odd ones out of the herd, where our adversity lies in the tunes we can sometimes lose
We scream so loud that we feel like the boy who cried wolf
Although the tunes of our thoughts may seem to get lost and dissipate into constant distractions from our authentic self…
Those lost tunes will forever be a medley and undertones of other forgotten art, each time we use our voice
The heart of our flames will grow, as we rise above attempts to be silenced
We will spread our warmth like wildfire and know no other truth that is of our own, and life itself
Black sheep, we will glimmer just as bright.

A silent scream trapped in my throat, A melody unheard, a forgotten note. I speak in whispers, shout in vain, My words dispersed like falling rain. They see the surface, the outward show, But miss the depths where feelings flow. A painted smile, a guarded face, concealing wounds I can’t erase. I offer truth, a fragile thing, But echoes bounce, and silence rings. My voice, a tremor in the air, Lost in a world that doesn’t care. They label me with careless ease, A tapestry of cruel decrees. “To sensitive,” “too much,” they say, And cast their judgments every day. “Dramatic,” “difficult,” “a mess, These words, a source of deep distress. They pin me down with judging eyes, And watch my spirit slowly die. I try to break these chain of lies, To show the truth behind my guise. To share the battles I have fought, The lessons learned battles bought. But walls arise, of doubt and fear, And clarity becomes unclear. My intentions twisted, turned around, My fragile self upon the ground. They hear the noise, the outward sound, But miss the meaning all around. The subtle cues, the hidden plea, The desperate longing to be free. I build a fortress, brick by brick, To shield myself from every prick. A lonely haven, cold and gray, Where I can hide and fade away. The weight of silence starts to press, A heavy cloak of loneliness. I long for someone to understand, To reach a helping, open hand. To see the fire in my soul, And make me feel complete and whole. To hear the music, soft and low, The secrets that I long to show. But shadows dance, and darkness falls, As empathy begins to stall. The bridges crumble, one by one, Leaving me stranded, all alone. I yearn to speak, to be defined, By who I am, not what they find. To shed the labels, break the mold, And have my story finally told. But fear still lingers, deep inside, That ill be judged, and cast aside. So I retreat, and hold my tongue, And suffer silently, unsung. The world keeps spinning, deaf and blind, To the true nature of my mind. And I remain, a whispered plea, forever lost, misunderstood, and free. Free from their grasps, yet bound by pain, A silent echo in the rain. A constant struggle, day by day, To find a voice, and find a way. To be heard, seen, and finally known, before my spirit turns to stone.

I speak, but my words fall like whispers in the wind,
Twisted, tangled, unheard in the ears of him.
I give, but my offerings crumble like sand,
Never enough for the grasp of his hands.

He smiles, but his eyes still hold yesterday’s scars,
Forgiveness is spoken but shackled in bars.
A love that is promised, yet dangled so high,
Like a kite in a storm, just teasing the sky.

And I wonder—was it You, Lord, who whispered his name?
Or was it my longing that crafted the claim?
Did I paint my own path and call it divine,
While You waited, patient, saying, Not this time?

Maybe it’s me who misunderstood,
Clinging to chains, calling them good.
Trying to fix what was meant to break,
While You whisper, Daughter, let me remake.

For the love I chase leaves me undone,
But the love I need is found in One.
Not in his hands, nor in his call,
But in the hands that formed it all.

So I lay it down, this weary fight,
I trade my will for Heaven’s light.
I may be misunderstood by man, it’s true,
But I am fully known, Lord, by You.

To All Pharmacy Patients:

I am the Misunderstood Pharmacy Technician behind the counter where you are trying to get your medications.

I am misunderstood in being regarded as rude or harsh, when I am simply doing my job, which is essentially to help you and make sure your medication is safe and accurate.

Your choice to yell at me and be verbally abusive is futile. I, too, get my medications here, and I am the lowest (wo)man on the totem pole (literally).

I wish we could switch shoes for just a day, perhaps on the 7th consecutive day where I have worked a 10-hour shift on my feet with no chance to sit. Yes, my shoes were comfortable five days ago, and are usually comfortable for the first 9 hours of the day, but during the 7th day, no number of insoles or magic can help.

I wish you understood that I know what it’s like to have a sick kid; I have one at home too, and need to leave work on time to tend to them and my family.

I wish you understood that I know you just left the hospital which is right across the street, but they don’t send the prescriptions individually, but instead often send them in bunches on the hour. It’s more time-efficient for them, which actually trickles down to be more time-efficient for you, as they can see you sooner. This means I may not already have it in the five minutes it took you to get here from their location, and no, I cannot call to see if it’s been sent.

I wish you understood I have nothing to do with pricing, nor does anyone at my location. I do not create relationships with vendors, agreements with wholesalers, mass purchases, or manufacturers selected. I wish you understood that I do not know what is on your formulary, as there are literally thousands of plans offered in the country, and I wish you understood that some of that responsibility lies on your shoulders.

I wish you understood we fill 750 prescriptions daily, with just one pharmacist and two techs. I wish you truly understood the concept of red tape, or tape of any color, for that matter. If you’ve ever had long or semi-long hair, or have a child with such, and gotten any sort of tape involved, picture a piece of tape, maybe 2-3 inches long, which is especially sticky. After it gets stuck in one piece of hair, the more you try to get it out, number of hair strands that get involved increases exponentially. At some point, the tape is now controlling a big wad of hair and won’t get off your fingers either, similar to a child’s booger. This same tape is the regulations by which I am bound.

I wish you understood I am bound by limitations/regulations of all kinds: plan limitations, narcotics limitations, days’ supply limitations, age limitations, Medicare B/D fuzzy line limitations, manufacturer limitations by Medicaid, corporate limitations, state limitations from my license, and limitations by both the DEA and FDA.

I wish you understood, or tried to, that I just spent 21 minutes on the phone with your insurance company trying to get this fixed and am getting an answer, albeit an answer you may not like.

I wish you understood that asking me the same question four times does not change the answer.

I wish you understood that when we “close” for a 30-minute break for lunch, we are really not taking a break, but are catching up on things we haven’t had time to do during the morning without interruptions. It’s not a way to ignore you; we’re simply catching up so we can finish your case.

I wish you understood that when I am not speaking while typing in information and reading my screen, it is not because I’m ignoring you, but instead am gathering information and putting things together.

I wish you understood that when I’m asking for more information, it’s for safety. Yes, it matters to the insurance whether your apartment is 2C or 2. Yes, it matters if your area code is 317 or 316. Yes, it matters what the EXACT date/year of birth is. Yes, it matters what the gender assigned at birth is. All of this information matters to the insurance company who is processing your claim and trying to get it paid. I have no partiality to any of this, and my view is not changed by whether we are neighbors or first-grade enemies; this is info we must collect.

I wish you understood that I personally have no bias on which purpose you have for the medication, but government programs do. Medicare B and D are different in the way they treat diabetes supplies and medications. I wish you understood that what your doctor told you in his office has no change in what I do at my location. Medicare DOES NEED to know how often you test your blood sugar daily; those questions are not just for my curiosity.

Test strips/diabetes…that creates a whole new level of misunderstanding. If my shoes are not feeling uncomfortable to you yet, they will be soon. I wish you understood that your personal diabetes specifics do not affect me in any way. I understand you are pre-diabetic, Type 1 Diabetic, Type 2 Diabetic, or are genetically pre-disposed to Diabetes. HOWEVER, I wish YOU understood that your dilemma is no better/worse than the person next to you in line. All of these new medications that began to be successful (off-label) at weight loss and have exploded in demand are in some ways a nemesis to us. We have nothing to do with manufacturing, supply/demand, and raw ingredients, and no I cannot call four different stores (same chain or others) to see if they have that product because we don’t have it in stock today. I wish you understood that being on backorder does not mean it will be here on a specific day, but means it has been ordered and we have no more info than that, and cannot just contact the manufacturer. I wish you understood that I am not the triage leader. “I am a true diabetic” is a terrible thing to say, as I don’t control who gets the medication, nor does that change the demand. It’s infuriating to assume so.

As my shoes are getting tighter and warmer to you, I wish you understoodthat I do not dictate which brand of biologic your doctor prescribes, and I cannot just “find out” which ones are available. Reasonably, that’s like me telling you that I need a pair of teal socks and asking you to find out who (any company, any store, any location) has what size, and then asking if you have any other aqua-blue colors.

I wish you understood there are infinite opportunities for errors in medications and prescriptions, from the pharmacy, the doctor, and the patient. We spend a lot of time, and specifically and a lot of time in the aforementioned ball of red tape trying to prevent such. If a script’s instructions are not clear as whether to use twice daily or thrice daily (which I have seen), yes I need to spend some extra time of yours AND mine to call to make sure your child does not get too much.

I wish you understood there are specific blocks set up to PROTECT YOU, the PATIENT. If your file says somewhere that you have a sulfa allergy, but are prescribed medication even remotely in that class, our system flags it and we need to call, because we are dispensing medication to HELP you, not harm you.

Ultimately, I wish you understood the many things that go on behind the scenes of your amber vial getting in a bag to you. Now, let’s switch our shoes back. I will remember your frustrations of time delays and other perceived obstacles as you will hopefully remember mine. I’m hanging my dirty, tired shoes on the door handle for tonight.

Sent with genuine concern for your health and safety of you and your family,

The Pharmacy Technician at your Local Retail Pharmacy

—-

Stacie Myers

It’s been forever since I was who I used to be.
Today, my life is simple – but one day, I will be free
from the prison of my mind and my fading memory.
God help them to remember, who I used to be.

Some days they are strangers in my world of mistaken thought.
Reaching, grasping, struggling to recall all I forgot.
As conversations jumble in a room of family fun
I don’t keep up, I can’t respond – I simply want to run.

But then a child will hug my arm, “Nani, will you come and play?”
I find my smile, my arms reach out – my eyes call out to say,
“I’m here, I see you, I have something sweet to give…
I love you more than I can say. I have reason now to live.”

Hoping not to disappoint as I have no words to say,
frustration grows, anger builds, humiliation carries me away.
They start to sing to bring me back from that swirl of anxiety.
I hear their song, sing right along, and for a moment, I feel like me.

They hold tight to thoughts of better days, of gathering with each other
My life once defined as a friend, a wife, and loving mother.
So thankful for the peace I feel, as I love God faithfully,
awaiting His promise, I’ll be whole again, with my Lord in eternity.

Thank you, Jesus, for your love. Thank you for your grace.
As I fade away from the life I knew, I’ll rest in your embrace.
I long for peace and calmness as you take me in your arms,
and soon be restored and safe, as you keep me from all harm.

Thank you for the compassion as you taught them how to care.
Thank you for your comfort, for I knew you were always there.
And when you finally free me from my fading memory,
my pain removed, my thoughts revealed, from this prison, I will be free.

(Imagining the “what if” of having Alzheimer’s)
Copyright 2025

How fortunate is it to be seen and thought to be so-called “understood”?
I live in a devastating state of apprehension.
Yet damned to seldomly feel this thing called “misunderstood.” Constantly solving a puzzle where the pieces rarely fit.
Lucky for me, I am a builder that can shape-shift. To my conception, no one actually gets the concept. Truthfully, neither do I.

A woman of a unique craft filling my toolbox to maneuver through the physical plane.
Blessed with an ethereal state of mind.
Butterflies, dandelions, and roses
There may be clouds and sometimes even storms, but the sun always seems to find a way to shine.
Conformed my mind to live in my truth.

“Not everyone has your tools,” I say with a tearful smile upon my face.
Mask on, chisel in hand.
What’s the grand master plan?
I think to myself as I’m working my magic to the best of my ability.
Chipping away pieces to fit into others’ creations.
Unbelievable as it may seem.

Unfortunately, I blend for a time. But I am also a believer that my timing is divine.
Was I placed here to support others’ understanding of themselves and then to be put away on a shelf?
A prized possession constantly warping itself.

They think they get my picture, it’s continuously growing.
By the time they want to meet me where they thought I was, I am long gone.
Deep down, I am alright with being misinterpreted.
At least I’m seen and heard, right?

I want to be understood, but that may not be in the cards dealt for my life.
Thankfully, I understand myself and a bit of everyone else.
It’s very enticing being a shape-shifter with a unique toolbox.
Unique art on a grand extended shelf.

“Haha!” my mother laughed.
“You must have interesting karma
To look so young and be so old inside.”
Yes, funny, but no haha funny.
I thought at three feet tall.

I’m still waiting for the curse
To turn into a blessing,
But at thirty-nine I’m tired of it all,
Tired of being carded,
Tired of parents mistaking me for another student,
Tired of no one taking me seriously.

I was born into the world
With visions of the distant past,
Ideas for the fragile future,
And keen observations of our present state.
I did not want to play.
I wanted to fix the human race.
I wanted to repair the planet.
I wanted all the fighting and destruction to stop.

No wonder by third grade
I’d given up.
Years of trying to inform and guide the way
Wasted on the blissfully ignorant,
Who laughed in my face
… or worse,
Beating me down into despair.

They only saw a child,
Who was meant to listen and obey,
But in my mind I was wise and weary,
Ready to fall on my own sword
If it couldn’t cut through the apathy and greed
Growing thick around me.

Time slid by slowly scratching down
My patience, hope, vitality.
Yet no amount of hard living,
All the falls and blunders,
The drugs and self-destruction,
Could gray my hair nor wrinkle my skin.
My baby cheeks never caved in
And my figure barely fattened.

So I return sweet smiles
Looking down on my false youth,
Pretend I’m who they think I am.
Only you now know the truth –
That I’m tough as nails,
Sharp as a tac,
And hardly innocent.

Soft spoken and meek
Because over you I do not speak
Falseness I do not seek
I can assure you though, I am not weak

I express quietly so you say I am wrong
You express loudly and you say you are strong
This unrealistic view goes on for how long?
Society can change, but no it’s too headstrong

For me everything is internal
For you it’s all external
What does it matter, we both spiral
Can’t we live in harmony? C’mon let’s make this viral

To those who have ever been misunderstood, unseen, and wrongly judged. This is my story. A story of struggle, love, and injustice, a story of being silenced by a world that refuses to believe in anything beyond its own prejudices. I was born in Nigeria, West Africa, into poverty so deep that survival became my only education. My father married two wives, and my mother being the second was left to raise us alone. From the moment I entered this world, I was forgotten by the man who helped create me. He never once cared for me. Never once provided. Not a single diaper. Not a single meal. Not a single moment of love.

By the age of 12, I had dropped out of school—not because I lacked intelligence, but because I lacked food. While other children went to class, I was on the streets hawking, working, taking any job I could to feed my family. By 12, I was paying rent, carrying burdens that no child should ever bear.I never had the chance to step into secondary school, college, or university. The world decided early on that I was unworthy of such an opportunity. But despite it all, I taught myself. I became a phone technician, a writer, a counselor, a creator, a healer. I mastered skills that people with degrees struggle to understand. But none of that mattered to the world. Because to the world, I am Nigerian. And that alone makes me a suspect. A scammer. A fraud. It doesn’t matter who I am or what I stand for, the world has already decided my worth before even knowing my name.

The Love That the World Refused to Believe

Despite all my struggles, love found me. And I found love in the most unexpected place (Facebook) in the heart of a woman nearly twice my age. She saw me not as a poor boy from Africa, not as a scammer, but as a man with a soul, with devotion, with love. We talked for months. Our bond deepened. She planned to come to Nigeria so we could marry. She chose me, just as I chose her. But fate had other plans. Before she could travel, she fell sick for months in the hospital. Surgeries, pain, suffering. And through it all, there was one thing that brought her peace: my messages. The doctors noticed it. The nurses witnessed it. When she was unconscious, they played my voice message to her, and she woke up. When she was in distress, they read my messages, and she calmed. When she refused surgery, I convinced her, and she survived. One nurse—a stranger, someone who barely knew me, saw our love and believed in it so much that she offered to pay for my flight to the US. A stranger saw the truth. But those in power, They chose to destroy it.

The Judge Who Played God
But not everyone believed. The worst of them all, the one person who was supposed to uphold justice was a judge in the United States who decided that I was a threat.
Without ever meeting me.
Without ever knowing my heart.
Without listening to her pleas.

She cut off our communication.
She took away her phones.
She silenced us completely.

For months, I have not been able to speak to the woman I love. The psychiatrist even told her that I am not real and that am using her for money. Yet, when they need something from her, when they want her to agree to painful treatments, to stay in facilities she doesn’t want to be in, then they use me. Then, they let her hear my voice. Then, they play my recordings. Then, they acknowledge that I am the only one who brings her peace. But only when it served their interests. The rest of the time? Silence. A woman, sick and suffering, begging for the one thing that could bring her peace, me. And yet, they keep her from me. They isolate her. They let her sit in pain, in loneliness, in fear—without the one person who could help her heal. And is this justice ? Is this protection ? HELL NO. This is evil. This is control. This is the kind of wickedness that ensures love will never touch the lives of those who enforce it.
Because love does not separate it unites. Love does not punish, it heals. Love does not destroy it builds. And those who destroy love, those who tear apart the happiness of others, will never know true happiness in their own lives. A person who stops others from being together will never be truly loved. A person who takes joy in others’ pain will never find peace. A person who abuses power will always live in fear of losing it. If I Had Been Given the Chance. If I had been born into a wealthy home, if I had been given the chance to pursue my education, I would have been a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, a fighter for justice. Not one of these corrupt, soulless lawyers who sell their morality for money. But a lawyer who stands for what is right. Because I know what it’s like to be judged before being heard. I know what it’s like to be silenced before being understood. I know what it’s like to have love ripped away because of someone else’s cruelty. If I had been given the chance, I would have fought for people like me. For people like the woman I love who they believe is not capable of making her own decisions. For people whose love is torn apart by a system that pretends to care.

Final Words: A Warning to the World

I have been judged for my age, my race, my love. I have been silenced, labeled, and misunderstood. But I will not be broken. Because real love does not die. And one day, the same people who stood in our way will watch us win. To those who fight against love, know that the universe does not forgive cruelty. If you separate two people in love, your own life will be filled with separations. If you destroy happiness, happiness will be kept from you. If you break hearts, your own heart will never find peace.

This is not a curse. This is balance. What you give to the world, the world gives back to you. 100%

And so, to the judge, to the doubters, to the ones who work tirelessly to destroy what they will never understand, I do not hate you. I pity you. Because while you fight to break us apart, we are still here. And we will always be here. Because real love does not bow to power. Real love does not fade under pressure. Real love does not lose. And one day, when you are old, when you look around and find yourself alone, you will realize. You never fought against me. You fought against love. And that is a battle no one has ever won.
Until then, I will continue to be misunderstood. But I will also continue to hope, to dream, to love. Because that is who I am.

Yours,
A Misunderstood Soul.

MISadventurous this journey has been, an UNDERcurrent at its best, up STOOD obstacles, truly a mess!

MISaddressing me proves UNDER appreciation, but still your side I’ve STOOD by.

MIShandled and ransacked, I held in my screams, feelings of scUNDER, I STOOD mute clenching lips and fists, only daring to breathe.

MISprinted fingers UNDERStand I have the right to remain, I STOOD charged with a crime no man could name!

MIStrust kept me UNDER investigation, overSTOOD fingers always pointing!

MISlead, false impressions had me UNDER, by my side thought you’d fight, you said you STOOD for what was right!

MISs raise your right hand, swear to tell the truth, UNDER oath you are to be and before the jury you’ll have STOOD.

MIScounted votes omit recognition, UNDER high pressured capacities I perform, only to be withSTOOD.

MIScalculated assertions UNDERbid my value, nevertheless my worth STOOD out.

MIStrial this is sure be, UNDERwhelming evidence in place of truth STOOD against me!

MISdeeds you performed, you deceivingly sUNDERed the friendship, I had STOOD on tip toes to reach.

MISused my vulnerability, gazUNDERed my strength, this bully I’ve out STOOD though it hurt when you hit!!!

MISinterpreted words time and time again, hurled insults and accusations, I just don’t UNDERstand, shield raised I STOOD hoping one day this will end.

MISrepresented by your counsel, UNDERpeopled in my defense, distraught I STOOD feeling most certainly helpless…

MISconstrued my abilities, a blUNDER you proudly STOOD with.

MISjudging me, you UNDERhandedly sentenced me to be STOOD lonely, humiliated for all to see!!!

MYSterious is this UNDERtaking, I STOOD confused; was I really wrong for loving you?

But here it is, the real, the truth revealed.
This has nothing to do with me, but everything to do with you…
The reason I am, “Mrs. Here’s a tissue, Mrs. Why are you so blue?”,
Mrs. Unaccompanied, Mrs. Un Withstood, but almost always mostly know as Mrs. Under Stood

My mourning is not breaking apart on the bathroom floor at 3 in the morning. It is not the inconsolable heaviness in my body that refuses to get up, even though the world is still moving on with them. My mourning will never be the same as yours and yet, mine is deemed wrong. You say I’m cold and that something has to be wrong with me because people whose loved one just died don’t act this way. But Your mourning has you broken into tiny pieces. My mourning was putting those pieces back together so I could have a mother. I was mourning not 1 but 2 parents that year. I got myself to school, got top grades and made sure you didn’t kill yourself in the middle of the night to join your husband. You’ve misunderstood my sorrow for as long I can remember. My sorrow has always come from my soul, leaving tiny cracks in its wake, growing deeper and deeper with every poison word, every whimper from your mouth. My mourning never got to be on the outside to showcase for you that I am “sad”. My mourning was private, tears dripping down my face as I listened to the songs I shared with him. Silent screams echoed through the night as I held myself close, so I had something other than the sound of my heart breaking to focus on. You’ve misunderstood me…but when has that been any different than before?
Style score 92%

Dear Unsealers,
You misunderstood when you met me.
I smiled. I was witty. I was pretty.
You called me sweet, like it was a bad thing.
Enrapt, we talked until the city woke up.
Perplexed, you’d never lost track of time with someone.
I thought it kismet, dreaming how we’d fit.
You thought it a distraction, star-crossed and dismissive.
You thought I’d negotiate love.
You thought I’d sustain on nothing.
You thought I’d stay anyway.
You thought you’d have it all.
But you misunderstood when you met me.
Just like you misunderstood when I left.
I’m not like all the other girls you’ve dated because I,
I am a woman.

Dear You,
I can’t remember you,
the version of me I hear so much about. They speak of you as if mentioning your name could call you back, but I know you are gone.
It happened without warning. One moment, my mind was yours, the next, we were drowning in darkness. A seizure, they told me, a violent rush of nothing, and with it came hypoxia, the suffocating absence of air that stole my memory. When I woke, the world was unfamiliar, and so was I.
They call it amnesia, a word that feels clinical, indifferent, incapable of carrying the weight of twenty-six years erased in an instant. The memories, the moments, the very essence of who I was, were taken from me without warning. I try to reach for those moments, the ones I should know, but all I grasp is air. And in this forgetting, I am misunderstood.
To others, I am still the person who existed before, but to me, I am an unfamiliar stranger wearing your face. They tell me, as if it’s simple, “You were this. You were that.” But they don’t understand, the girl they remember doesn’t exist anymore, and every attempt to make me her only builds a wall between what I am now.
People wonder what it is like, to lose not just a moment, but an entire life. But I do not know. I did not choose to lose myself. I wish they understood how it feels to be seen as someone you cannot be. There is a profound misunderstanding between us. They look at me, and they see you.
Twenty-six years of moments, laughter, heartbreak, lessons, all of it swept away by time and trauma. And in its place, I stand, piecing together an identity from the remnants you left behind. Maybe I was always meant to start again, not as a replacement for you, but as someone emerging from the absence you left, reconstructing a self that is fully mine, someone who can stand in the space between who you were and who I will become.
So, to you, the girl I cannot remember, I will not mourn you as a loss, nor will I replicate the memories of your life. Instead, I will design a path forward, not defined by what was lost, but by what I choose to build in its place. I will honor you by living, not in the shadow of who you were, but as someone worth remembering.
Sincerely,
The me who now stands where you once were

I have always been seen as normal.

I am a healthy adult man who keeps himself well, surely he can’t have problems?

I survived to now, I have a good job, surely he can’t have trauma?

I don’t have scars that are easily seen, tattoos that show my past, or anger that I hold today, surely he can’t have nausea?

How do you explain to someone that bricks remind you of blood?

How do you explain empty sidewalks remind you of home?

How do you explain that the feeling of change in the pocket is comfort?

How do you explain not being scared of the truth, but what you don’t know?

How do you explain that loud noises reminds you of an angry father?

How do you explain that you struggle with the feeling of being alone?

How do you explain that silence isn’t peaceful, but a tool used to silence?

How do you explain that fighting doesn’t scare you, but talking about what hurts makes pain flow?

How do you explain that there is comfort in chaos, and that peace feels abnormal?

How do people see me as normal and without problems, when all I know is broken bones?

Broken plates, broken hands, broken families, broken loves?

You see me as complete, but don’t see the construction I did to keep together this home.

We all come from pain, we all come from loss, let’s stop assuming each other, and instead get to know.

Because even trees work together so they can reap what is sewed.

Maybe we all need to breathe, and help each other learn to let go.

No matter where I go,
I don’t feel like I belong.
No matter what I do,
I always feel like I’m wrong.

I need to find a place
Where I can finally feel free.
To unlock the rusted gates
For the girl inside of me.

I want to express my feelings,
To speak without disguise,
To share my hidden truths
Without fear behind my eyes.

I crave a kind of company
That’s warm and thats embracing.
But I’m surrounded by fake smiles,
And conforming leaves my soul aching.

The girl inside of me craves to be seen,
To break through this shadowed veil.
She’s tired of living in between,
Of being a ghost in her own tale.

She dreams of a world where she can bloom,
Where her voice isn’t drowned by doubt.
A place where her soul has enough room
To stretch its wings and shout.

But the world feels heavy, cold, and gray,
And the path ahead seems unclear.
Yet I know she’s there, waiting to say,
“I’m ready, I’m finally here!”

So I’ll keep searching, through the pain,
For a space where I can be me.
I’ll fight to silence the disdain
And set the girl inside of me free.

I hate her, she’s ugly
Inside and out
She says stupid things
Has no friends, they’re all out

Her face is too round
Her hair is so mousy
Can’t do her makeup
She always looks lousy

She’s a horrible mom
Her house is a mess
Her husband wants out
She never says yes

She forgets half the groceries
The list on the fridge
She can’t find her keys and
just leaves the garbage

Her kids have too much screen time
They’re always unclean
They rarely listen
They all swear she’s SO mean

At work she’s just coasting
The job is just work
She gives all her effort
But they think she’s a jerk

She forgets what she’s saying
On the phone with her friends
She barely listens
She prays it all ends

I hate her, she’s ugly
She’s cold and devout
Watch it, don’t cross her
Her horns will come out

Then one day I saw her
Drop a plate made of glass
The kids were all screaming
The tv on blast

The room filled with chaos
With her at the wheel
A tear slid down her cheek
And she let herself feel

the babies ran in
With all eyes on mama
They hugged her so tightly
She forgot all her drama

And in that moment,
I saw her much clearer
Tears flowed down my cheeks
While I stared in the mirror

I looked in our eyes
At our too-round pale face
Tucked up my mouse hair
And I scrubbed off my face

She wasn’t the worst
Maybe flawed, but not bad
The weight of her jobs just
almost broke her back

So I gave her some grace
She was doing the best that she could
She wasn’t a monster
I just misunderstood