My dearest, well-meaning Professional,
Please do not press your cures
upon my body.
Have you ever thought that I might not be sick
Or that the parts of me you see as broken
are not the parts I want to change?
I often wished when I was younger
that if I touched someone’s skin
I’d have the ability to feel their body,
their pain and their joy,
as if it were my own.
But where is my right to feel another’s self?
It’s theirs, and I have no ground to demand it’s proof
Sometimes the only thing we can truly claim as ours
is our pain.
My only power can be to listen as they explain,
as best they can, in the fumbling inaccuracy of words
their lived experience.
My only power is to put aside my assumptions, put aside what I Know
and let them show me their truth
in whole or in part, as they wish.
I would not invade their physical body with my own
and so I ask you
do not to invade me with your assumptions, medicines and cures.
I do not want to be whole.
My truth is not whole
but imperfect and broken
like the world around it.
Do not try and cure me, good Doctor, but let me grow
twisted, abnormal and malformed
and show you my broken and imperfect