Do you think you are special?

I never wanted to be anything in particular,
just special.
I was told I was special.
We all were.
Right?
But was it right to say that?
Was it right to tell everyone that they were all special?

Certainly you’ll find individuality
in the ridges of a fingerprint,
In the spots of an iris.
But what makes you special?
Why is that word used instead of unique?
Unique is so much clearer and less overwhelming.
It’s direct and makes you feel like you actually are special.

When did I realize that being told you’re special is a pandering technique to soothe the ego of the immature mind and steal away the terror of inadequacy from young hearts?

No.
I refuse to believe I am special.
But I might believe I am unique
if I could know what I am.
So what am I?

I am disabled.
I am trying my best.
I am working as hard as my mind will allow.
I am lying about those last two.
I am too comfortable to say I’m working hard.
My best is worth so much more than what I’m providing.
I am conceited and shallow and vague and bitter and lazy,
dying slowly in my bed.
I am. I am. I am.
You’re what?

Disconnecting like a spider breaking apart its web.
Because it didn’t like that one angle it made too sharp,
and it honestly couldn’t handle discovering that minor flaw.
Never mind that it needs a home
or that it will struggle and suffer and starve without its home.
It has irrational emotions that must be validated.
Otherwise, the whole world will fall apart.

Breaker, breaker.
Feedback, Feedback.
Can you break the cycle?
Do you see the circle forming in the doldrum of your self-deprecation?

There is a hole in the nothingness.
It’s burning without fire.
Absolutely nothing, peeling away into ashes,
forming something in the process.
Nothing special though.
A unique Pollock of layered ashes -
each layer the same color.
So nothing is discernable.
So there is no art to the destruction.

But the creation is something out of nothing.
That’s special, right?

No.
It’s an imitation of the blood in your veins,
of molecular structure twisting as it strains.
It’s the blood-brain barrier crumbling into a psychotropic death.

Time to refill those prescriptions.

As if this sickness can be cured.
As if it is not desired attrition of sensation and rationality.
As if I could help from longing for the manic depersonalization
of acid blotter remorse
and psilocybin psychotic breaks.
The kind where reality itself falls apart,
and you’re given that one moment of truth.
You discover that every single thing in this universe is special, even you.
And you finally feel that it isn’t a lie.

Then, it all vanishes into sluggish cognizance.
You faintly remember that you are special.
But you don’t feel it anymore.

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