Black Sheep
You are the one who would not take the dye.
One dark fleece in a field of white, and the flock decides it is a flaw. That is the whole story, and it was never really about the sheep. Black wool would not take the dye, so it could not be sold with the rest, and a word for unsellable slowly became a word for you. You are the one who would not take the dye. You are the color a room could not blend back into itself, so someone decided you were the trouble and felt lighter for having named it. Notice what that admits, though: you were vivid enough to be pointed at. To be set apart is still to be seen. The ache you carry is not that you failed to belong; it is that you belonged too loudly in a direction no one had a chair for. Right now you are the one holding the story the others agreed to leave untold. You give everybody else their ordinary by being the exception. That is real weight, and it is not a verdict. This word is a mirror held to the shape of your difference. It is accurate, and it is still only a start. See whether it holds up when you take your read.
Underneath black sheep, the reading most often finds the Storm rhythm, the pattern moving under the behavior.