Diagnosis

“You are not your diagnosis”
You say,
Examining me with focus.

My happiness must be manic,
And my fears are just psychotic.

To you,
I can’t have interests,
Just things that I’m obsessed with.

When I confessed my disability,
You said you’d handle it with fragility.

But it’s all you seem to see of me.

I don’t understand,
Are you scared of me?

You said that you were safety,
And I trusted that entirely.

I didn’t know that you had hatred,
Much less that it was closeted.

“You are not your diagnosis”
You say,
As you predispose us.

I wish you would’ve been more honest.
You should be more aware of your bias.

But to you,
It’s something victimless.
But of course,
It’s not your consequence.

It must be on me for hurting.
I should’ve been more discerning.

“You are not your diagnosis”
You say,
As if I’ve earned it.

“You are not your diagnosis”
You say,
But you take notice.

“You are not your diagnosis”
You say,
But you weaponize it.

No.

I am not my diagnosis.

But,
It would seem,
I’m the only one that knows it.