Slow Stigma

Slow Stigma

Do not listen to how I speak, rather internalize what I say.

The words I enunciate do not weigh any less or influence anything more because of my slur.

My words may seem dampened but so does a firework until it is set ablaze.

Let my words sizzle as they sky rocket, soaring until they succulently sever against the atmosphere.

Do not patronize me.

I have just as many “marbles in my bag” as you, if not more.

Each one encasing the stares that are shuttered upon me with a clear lacquer of gossiping whispers.

The marbles are transparent reminders that I’m the kid that gets excited just to get called on because

maybe they’ll see me different than just the “slow kid” in class.

So sorry, I can’t spill my marbles as easily as you can.

Do not call me slow because you don’t have to cross speed bumps from the brain to heart to lungs to lips.

I think just as fast as you do, and I feel even faster.

My heart races as my muscles throb, my bones jittering against the breath that I just can’t seem to catch.

No matter how much I pray Ave Maria, bleed out patience, gasp for silence, or taste defeat time again

They just don't understand.

It’s not that I’m slow, it’s that they’re jumping too quick to conclusions.

Do not feel sorry for me.

I have felt sorry for myself for long enough and I don’t want more opportunities to feel it again.

I’m tired of putting myself below others, I’ve regretted the hours I spent streaming rivers from my eyes.

I will no longer tolerate artificial sympathy from myself let alone anyone else.

          Do look at me as equal, not as something to make equitable.