#disibilities

by the woman who wanted become the woods

_____________________________

Sometimes I want to runaway

to somewhere green and wordless,

where the branches don't know my gender

or the way my body fails its contracts.

The woods don't keep score.

They don't hand you a list

of everything you didn't finish.

I have been so tired of being

the wrong shape for the room

too slow, too much, too far behind, too far ahead.

Out there where

you cannot speak the wrong words

because no words are spoken.

Where everything is

meant to be misshapen

Let the moss have me.

Let the dirt forget my name.

Out there the falling leaves

don't call it failure,

they just call it autumn,

Something beautifully decayed

Though, they don't reslly call it anything

They don't ask

They embrace.

*Image not edited by AI*

carries the evidence of heat unspent,

a fire that never cooled, running its fingers through every blazing nerve inside me.

Maybe I dye it

so the world can see

what I am forced to carry quietly.

For my blood is not blue when I bleed.

I wrap myself in green spells, 

textiles of hope, of regrowth,

the color of things that insist on living

no matter how often they’re cut down.

The color of renewal

after being trampled,

after rot,

after forgetting.

I wear it as proof

that I am still attempting life.

I wear it like a promise

I keep trying to make real.

My face arrives before I do.

A mask that does not ask permission,

snapping on at the threshold of the world.

Groomed so deeply inside me

it would turn upward

even in death,

even with a blade inside me sticking out. 

The moment I step outside,

the moment a gaze lands on me, 

an automatic shield

no willpower can break.

Deep breaths cannot loosen it.

Desire cannot unfasten it.

Even solitude does not always grant mercy.

It is a nearly unbreakable beast.

It will not budge,

not for strangers,

not for loved ones,

not even for myself most of the time,

not even when I beg.

The mask lives deeper than skin.

It is ancient, it is Ophelian, accented by survival.

It thrives in the wilderness of my wounds.

It learned this world by watching carefully,

by hiding what was labeled unfit,

ugly laws, sexist ableism,

rules and regulations

that never made sense to me

It took them like an algorithm and flushed them out in whichever way it needed to until we were safe again, with our kind. 

It shrank brilliance

until it was safe enough to consume,

draped it in ignorance,

the plague of innocence

women are expected to carry

like virtue.

So I paint myself into motion around it,

just to feel a semblance of control.

I let the mask take the wheel,

papier-mâché smile,

borrowed optimism

handed to every passerby.

A performance polished enough

to pass as ease, by something, I don't even recall creating, rather than having thrust upon me.

It hates the light as much as I do.

It thrives in dark rooms and rest.

While the world wants me to hide my disabilities,

I want to hide my masks that mask them,

though the world would have to change

far more than it’s willing to, to allow me to do that.

So it rises every time,

a loyal guard

against a world

that has been cruel for far too long.

My red hair holds my fury,

my wanting,

my pain made visible.

My green cloak carries what must heal,

what must grow again.

I bury it in the rot of my bed,

Let infection after infection, 

Injury after injury, 

Fever after fever sharpen it,

stronger, louder, more willful.

Beneath all of this, I am bare.

Raw.

Still and empty and roaring all at once.

An active volcano that never erupts,

always glowing beneath the crust.

I play the dumb, chaotic fool.

I pretend not to know my own power.

I scatter my achievements like crumbs

so no one traces them back to me.

Knowing society wants us to be invisible. 

The mask likes invisibility.

It calls it safety.

I let others take credit for what I build

so I won’t have to reveal myself.

The mask prefers control

Just like society does

I peel and I peel and I peel.

I rip and I rip and I tear.

I strip myself down again and again,

certain this time I’ve reached skin,

only to find another thin face

slipped on without my consent.

A truer side would have appeared if I would have painted it myself.

It is a loyalist to every journey. 

Yet at the exit, as I leave each event

masks overflow the trash,

plastic courage, paper joy,

everybody’s survival discarded at once, just like mine.

Only the one who carries them away moves unburdened.

NOTE:  Image is not perfect but it's not AI, I painted it on my tablet with whatever free brushes I had.

their skin color

their gender identity

their sexuality

their religious beliefs

their opinion

(if they have one) their mental disorder(s)

(if they have one) their disability/handicap

their weight

their body hair, pimples, stretch marks, etc

what they eat

how they feel

their likes/dislikes

their family

their friends

and a lot of other things people are constantly making other people feel bad about.

Inside in dancing (U.K) (2004) (Drama/comedy)

Michael has Cerebal Palsey and is seemingly doomed to spend the rest of his life in a grim Home for the disabled. That is until the day the rebellious Rory arrives. Rory has a plan which allows them to escape the home and live independently. Outsmarting the system the pair move into their own flat, employ a helper (the headstrong but inexperienced) Siobhan to take care of them and set out to enjoy the pleasures of  independence and new found friendship.