Sensitive

Sometimes, on nights like these,
I take a moment and ask.
When I was born, did they know
I was different than the rest?

'Cries so fast, gets upset, what a child' they said.
But it made no sense, at age seven,
There was a reason books were my safe haven.
At seventeen, I'm not sure I'll ever let it go. 

The world will tear you apart, they said.
Don't be so sensitive.
Don't feel so much, don't get too close.
I should have never listened.

I wonder if it's genetics, that makes me feel too loud.
But if my parents couldn't love it, then it had to have been a mistake.
Something that was wrong with me, a typo, a redundancy.
I grew up thinking sensitivity was my fatal flaw.

But, oh, if there's one thing I've learnt, it's this.
Sensitivity is my superpower, my guiding hand, a delicate flower.
It's in my conscience and in my thoughtfulness.
It's what helps me keep my people happy and safe.

Yes, I'm sensitive, I say out loud today.
Yes, I feel too deep for things mundane.
It took so long, it hurt so hard,
But now I get to learn a secret.

Sensitivity is empathy. Sensitivity is conscience.
Sensitivity is love. Sensitivity is kindness.
And if in this life, I only get to live till 65, 
Then I hope to die knowing, sensitivity made me who I am.

~InsanelyHilarious