Introverted Sensitive Empath


first they called me “shy”
devoid of words
I was scattered
as the sun might feel gleaming the edges of quarters
petrified to witness
all the wishes made

then they called me an ” introvert ”
like a pocket hanging inside out
wanting nothing more
than to be folded back into a quiet dark hole
I will take the lint and dirty pennies and candy wrappers
if you take the
or on a bad day
burn them at the stake

then they called me “sensitive ”
not meant for this world
feelings were not recommended
and I could do
nothing but
shove and bury and swallow
and hide

they fester by the way…

then I was likened to a ” canary ”
you know the ones they used as a warning in coal mines?
the death of a bird meant danger in the air
something is wrong
something is definitely wrong

then they grouped us together as the ” HSP “
we tear all the tags off our shirts
ravaging our new clothes
that scratch and poke and irritate and drive us

we laugh because now we are not alone
but we still hurt
we still cry
we still beg
that they make shirts without tags
knowing they never will

we are a minority
invisible to the naked eye

then they called us ” empaths ”
we not only bubble over with our own emotion
but we take on the energies of others as well!
like meat in a crock pot

please step away from me
I may just absorb you whole
cook you up
simmer you down
and blow us both up


the bullies existed
some I’ve burned at the stake
others I have sent off
in a cardboard box
out to sea
to drown
or preferably eaten by sharks

the feelings existed
I unfold them one by one
with great care
gently kissing their blossoms
and their stark thorns at night

there’s nothing I can do about the gas
if no one will listen
what’s the point in dying?

we could start our own brandless clothing company
but that might be too much work
with no recognition

the crock pot still simmers
with yours and mine

let’s just sip at our soup
stop labelling
and try not to care

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