the Real Me

I feel like a broken toy, used and abused by the world and by myself.
Constantly medicated because there isn’t a single hour in the day where I am safe to feel and experience the world as I am.
What a terrifying prospect?
How can I love and accept myself when the real me isn’t safe to come to the surface?
Constantly suppressed.
“Real me” - who would I be without medication? Without therapy?
They are tools I use to pick up the pieces left behind by the world,
tape to piece together what might be salvageable, but never valuable.