#crip stuff

Absolutely full of hatred for this attitude where people are like, oh, plenty of people with long covid seem to have something identical to me/cfs? Well fuck everyone with me/cfs and fuck that diagnosis, you all can suffer and die, no one cares unless it's long covid, we're going to continue to totally ignore the (insufficient, yes, but not insignificant) existing body of research about this condition and continue to pretend it might be imaginary.

(Softly, incessantly)

in my brain.

Gnawing at my patience.

I'm riddled with holes from the stares and glares of passersby

As I hobble down the slick snowy streets.

The click of my cane

And my hips

Echos off the alleyways.

They say that one who sees the world through Rose colored glasses is naive.

Their softness is punished, and they're blamed

For not seeing it coming.

I can't hear what they're whispering over my music, but I know it's about me.

You get a sense for these things, like being able to pick your name out of a fuzzy, too quiet high school PA system when your mom is here to take you home early.

And their eyes tell the whole story.

The click of my glasses case opening is lost among the pre class shuffle of laptops, notebooks, and creaking desks.

My only armour against the glaring, all destroying lights.

The world is softer through their lenses

But my softness has been calcified,

Crystallized,

By the bodymind crushing reality.

By being taken advantage of over and over again,

Powerless to stop it.

I see the world through rose colored glasses,

But it's still too unregenerate,

Still too bright, too loud, too painful.

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose,

Turning my world pink.

My head still hurts.

Pros: shrine