When they heard hoofbeats, they thought horses.
They looked past me, saw what they'd seen before
Waiting in rooms, in visits, stuck at home,
Body telling riddles they refused to hear.

Once a "problem list" established
Regardless of referrals,
Each new face seemed certain, dismissive.
Their quick nods,
Furrowed brows,
Diligent tapping of their typing,
Betrayed they thought they knew my body
Better than I ever could.
And the hoofbeats echoed
But no one saw my stripes.

I began to doubt myself,
Absorbed the uncertainty under their masks
And took it on as my own.
The pain stretched out, tangled in their disbelief,
Until finally, a single test, and a name to my zebra—
The word was heavy and awkward on their tongues
At the edge of their knowledge
And never once on their minds.

The diagnosis was like rain after drought,
Almost overtook me, ground not ready to hold
So much water -
An unbearable relief.
I was not broken
Or at least
Not in the ways they had thought.
The truth settled, a long-awaited guest,
Dragging muddy resentment through my home
On its hooves.

The zebra's curse is to teach.
I am the book, I spread the knowledge
Knowing more than they ever will.
Each appointment a lesson,
A lecture in which
I must fight their ignorance
And their egos.
Who is there but me
To remind them?
Where horses can thrive,
Zebras can survive.

My stripes are the scars of the years of waiting
The sharp demarcations of doubt
The lingering changes to my skin, my self,
My being, my trust.
A diagnosis solves the unknown,
But it can never silence the memory
Of being unheard.