It's a new year and as I Wrote last week, I just want to write. I used to write poetry in my late teens and early twenties. There are spiral bound books full of scribbled teenage dreams in my wardrobe. They were mostly about boys who broke my heart. Really lame.
You stop mid-walk, mid-sentence.
Oh my god.
Did you see her?
And you walk off.
You present me with platitudes that hang
Rusty rather than golden,
I know someone who...
That's not your child being shy.
That's your child frightened of my difference.
Hiding behind your legs, pointing, burying their face into you.
You tell me I'm angry for speaking out about discrimination and ableism and pity.
That my words make you scared you're saying the wrong thing.
I'm siding with the angry crowd,
It's best to just let things go, you say.
Not everything's a battle.
There's an organisation researching for a cure.
Meanwhile, the every day is forgotten.
The every day maintenance, every day resilience and every day battle-
Oh, but one day. Not now.
One day, they say, I won't have to look like this.
I'm still proud.