They told me I couldn't be a poet.
They said that poems flowed and a person like me was against that but really they were just ignorant.
I am not perfect.
I wash my hands separately.
Counting to five as I scratch with soap my wrists, this side and that, each finger individually and then under my nails.
Don't tell me to stop or interrupt my counting because I'll have to do it again and neither of us want to stand here much longer.
A roommate's friend once told me I was paranoid because for the last fifteen years of my life I have locked and unlocked the door four times before I can even think about going to bed.
Every set of two turns brings me closer to peace.
Unlock. Lock.
Unlock. Lock.
The doctor told my mom that obsessive compulsive disorder is manageable but what he should have told her was that they could give me some medicines to decrease my anxieties and that was about it.
"The best we can do is brain training."
As if my mind were a misbehaving puppy.
I was bullied.
Safety pins became safe guards from the internal pain making it physically present and then forcing myself to hide it because of the shame.
They told me I could not be a poet because poems flowed like honey from the pot making you recognise its presence; viscous and sweet.
I had always been a half set jello.
They said artists don't think in lines and numbers and I shouted so loud they couldn't hear me.
My brain is not lines and numbers.
My brain is not your trigonometry homework I do not need you to understand me.
Just don't tell me I can't.
The doctors told my mother that her lump was malignant cancer.
They did not tell her she could not live only how hard it would be.
I have never been a medically deteriorating person so I don't know the odds.
And this might make me a bad person but maybe this'll make her realise she never considered mine because she led the pack in telling me my mind was numbers and lines.
She almost had my soul convinced I could never be a poet.