My Constellation Mind
No one sees the magical mess
that lives raw, in my marrow.
They see a scatterbrained blur, a drifting spark—
but beneath the static, I’m just a girl
trying to hold the fragments
before they vanish into the void.
They see the too-much, the over-the-top—
but beneath the shimmer, I’m saturated,
overstimulated, itching
for the quiet sanctuary
where comfort breathes.
They don’t see a friend.
They see the chaos, an inconvenience;
not the courage it takes to arrive at all.
They don’t see the girl who aches for
understanding, tenderness, connection.
They don’t see the wild, radiant magic
I burn with and bleed.
A bright, untamed heart blazes inside
though few ever pause to witness
my constellation mind.
A beautiful, tangled, celestial mess.
I splinter. I weave. I conjure.
I learn in spirals, but dream in galaxies.
ADHD—yes, and still
this mind architects entire worlds
beyond the edges of expectation.
Anxiety, depression, and PTSD, walk beside me—
not as captors,
but as weather I’ve learned to read.
Entropy-laced rituals.
Chaotic constellations.
My thoughts scatter like stardust.
Never straight lines—
but arcs and collisions
where brilliance ignites in the wreckage.
A radiant ruin of wonder and will.
I drive on instinct,
speeding, stumbling, skidding—
untethered, unbound.
Peace arrives only
when I write.
All I have
is the strum in my chest
and the pen in my fist.
My thoughts tumble out in tangled constellations—
but they are mine.
Always, mine.
Then I uncover something unexpected.
You may not understand,
but without it,
I could never be the writer I envision.
Adaptive tech helps me sift the chaos,
shape the snarl,
refine the storm.
Yes, I’m an author—
but I’m no mechanic of grammar.
So I let it stir and stitch
the words I spill from my star-sick brain.
They remain mine.
I give credit where it’s due—
to the assistive tech that walks beside me,
not instead of me.
It teaches me rhythm.
It teaches me flow.
It teaches me that I’m not broken,
just wired like wildfire.
Some call it a crutch,
but I call it alchemy—
turning scattered fragments
into something whole,
something that sings.
I am a conjurer.
I build worlds.
I birth beauty from the wreckage.
Should I sit in silence,
retreat into the dark,
just because my wiring is wild?
Hell no.
I have tools now—
to shape the backwards,
to untangle the inside-out.
I don’t outsource my voice.
I channel it—through static, through structure,
through the storm.
The fire is stitched into my bones.
The rhythm is mine.
The ideas rise from the wreckage,
from the constellation mind,
from the girl who knows
what it means to be unseen—
and chooses to speak anyway.
🕯️ Keep the words lit. Keep the refuge warm.
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