As a child, X used to pour over a dictionary determined to find the words with which to understand and be understood by. Little did she know that her words were not the source of confusion, although they would be prominently blamed. She would clutch her pen with the same overdone determination as she applied to the dictionary, until either her hands or her mind would seize, whichever came first. There was no time in her memory when she had not overthought every word, be it of the ear, the mind, the mouth or the page. The linguistic gaslighting of a family under coercive control pushed her literal efforts into a sort of creative overdevelopement. This would be partial to the psychiatric framing which she had been confined to for most of her life. Poets are fucking crazy, after all. Her gifts in creative writing would become a curse when she realized she could not turn them off. She was limited to esoteric means. Whenever she tried to use the precision language she had learned in College, she would somehow seem crazier than when she spoke in prose & metaphor… but then again, what she had to say was crazier than what people would interpret when she left it open for them to do so. The matter of how she would shake and rush her defensive speech when being attempting clarity did not help. Being that people could not tell a torture victim from the dangerously insane made it a risk that her being saw little logic to take. She buffered her own speech all the time as protection from the consequences of speaking truths which are punishable by law to speak.
People had told her to read between the lines so many times in her life, she would have to hope that somebody, somewhere, would do the same for her.
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