They christen us in the language of diagnosis—
Complex, trauma-bound, empath, overthinker.
They speak of us as puzzles to be solved,
a knot of neurons and childhood wounds.
We are their Rorschach test on the therapist’s couch,
their favorite case study, their broken doll
with a heart full of shrapnel and a mind too loud.
They nod, take notes, whisper “attachment style”
as if naming a newly discovered star.
We dissolve behind textbooks and therapy speak,
our faces blurring into diagrams of fear,
the salt of their diagnoses already drying on our skin.
Around us, the scent of old journals and cold coffee,
the faint echo of a voice learning to say:
“I am not a case. I am the curator of this ruin.
Archetype
© Copyright: Олеся Маршал Жукова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125091503019
Свидетельство о публикации №125091503019
Рецензии