People call it a disability, a disorder,
But others call it witchcraft,
I’m not sure what to believe,
Or where to stand.
For me it’s a weakness,
I chose not,
Like a task assigned by the master,
I carry it in me.
I know light and sudden darkness,
Maybe would not relate,
Unless they saw my body fall,
Of course, lifelessly to the ground.
Some panic, some help,
Some watch, others run,
Others cry, others judge,
But I have learnt to be okay,
Okay with what their eyes say.
They call it epilepsy,
The broken brain, like some would call it,
But it’s still mine,
Mine to live with.
I have kept it together for years,
I have wiped my own tears,
Dusted off my fears,
But not on all days.
Not on all days, lately,
Every fall shakes my confidence,
Every seizure breaks a part of me,
I can’t help but imagine the next fall.
The next fall, the next place,
Will people look at me differently?
Will they watch as my body shakes?
Or will they leave me for death.
Normal is a word I relate to,
Not always, but a couple of times,
But I wish I could dine with it,
For the rest of my days.
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