Symptoms, Spoken Softly

The first voice speaks in delays.
Tomorrow, it says.
Not because tomorrow is better,
But because today is too heavy to lift.

Another counts exhaustion,
Without having done anything-
Tired, tired, tired-
A body reporting damage,
No one can see.

One voice forgets pleasure.
It looks at laughter like an old photograph,
And asks,
Did this ever belong to me?

There is a voice that edits memory,
Highlights every failure in red,
Blurs the rest.
It insists the past is proof,
Not context.

Another speaks in shrinking language:
Stay small, stay inside, don’t answer, don’t explain.
It mistakes withdrawal for safety,
And calls isolation “rest.”

One voice is allergic to mirrors.
It names the face harshly,
The weight, the silence, the slowness-
Confusing appearance,
with worth.

There is a voice that distrusts joy.
When light enters, it whispers,
Don’t relax. This won’t last.
Even happiness is treated
As a threat.

Another narrates the day,
Like a list of unfinished tasks,
Turning survival into failure,
Breathing into an obligation,
Barely met.

And the quietest voice-
The most dangerous in its softness-
Says nothing dramatic.
It only repeats:
You are difficult to love.
You always have been.

These are not truths.
They are symptoms learning how to speak.
They do not shout.
They convince.