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.
I had another go, 17 years from when I started. Here is my poem.
I see how you are physically shocked when you see me.
You stop mid-walk, mid-sentence.
Mouth agape like a flat bicycle tire tube.
You stare.
You stare.
Oh my god.
Wow.
Sunburnt.
Did you see her?
You laugh.
And you walk off.
Our bodies turn to see if one another is looking.
And our eyes meet one last time.
I’m not afraid to look back at you until you become uncomfortable.
I’m still looking.
You present me with platitudes that hang
around my neck – loaded, strangling.
They are compliments to you but weigh so much more for me.
Rusty rather than golden,
Rusty rather than golden,
I’d be ungrateful if I refused to accept them.
Even though.
Inspiring.
I know someone who…
Despite.
Still pretty.
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.
Mute to my greeting. Your child is too scared to look at me.
There’s 30 years between me and your child,
and this moment takes me back to the playground.
I’m still sad.
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,
and I’m better than them, you assume. (They’re my people.)
Calm down, lighten up.
It’s best to just let things go, you say.
Not everything’s a battle.
It’s best to just let things go, you say.
Not everything’s a battle.
I’m still writing.
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-
fighting with the surprised, condescending, scared and deniers.
Oh, but one day. Not now.
One day, they say, I won’t have to look like this.
I’m still proud.
Oh, but one day. Not now.
One day, they say, I won’t have to look like this.
I’m still proud.
(Image description: pink and purple swirled paint. Text: “I’m still.”)
Yes. X
Nice poem. Thanks for commenting on my blog.