DD.

Paper.

I've taken shards to my skin as if that would solve it. 

Burning water, attempting to dissolve it. 

Picked till I've bled, 

Watched my blood run cold. 

Only caught mt breathe as the scars unfold. 

And still, though it hurts, though I hurt.

I struggle to call it harm. 

 

It's not the harm I want to inflict, the harm I wish I was capable of. 

Another failure, a shortfall of mine. Why not just add another to list.

The list of faults that feels ten miles long, but it all comes down to one.

My disability. 

 

I could fake pride for a while, if you like. I've always done that. Told complete strangers I am proud, I am surviving, I am in control, I am not. 

The truth oh the truth, oh my truth, is not allowed to be existant in this world. 

Every time, as the doctor says, facts are altered to fit the view. The view I am equal, included, allowed, capable, worth it. 

The truth is so flexible, it works for those who need it, yet no one works for the truth. 

 

Not even I, who lies in bed to write this, words most of the world will never see, 

And those who see it, those who can feel the words burn through them, resonate within them, 

Like a tuning fork at perfect pitch, 

Will scarcely  bring themselves to admit, 

That they can hear the ring, the word silences. 

 

The normals need their inspiration, 

The disableds, they need motivation, 

I ... I hold on to imagination, gasp, bold in destination, fight exacerbation.

And for what?

For what?

WHAT..... 

 

What I really want is execution, in the darker moments, death would be my solution. 

No more life lived for others,

To rejoin my sisters, my brothers. 

For I was granted the chance to be, and yet all I could become was this pathetic regeneration of me. 

I'm tired. 

So tired. 

And I would be done if...

Being done, were in my own gift. 

 

It stops me you see, as ending my life is also on the list,

The list which combines that which I want, with that which I can never have. 

Like an addict, I am addicted. I have an addiction, 

To the perceived freedom of my imagination. 

Where this list lies for safekeeping. 

 

I say perceived, for good reason, I won't let naivety give me a beating. 

Whos to say that were I able, 

With this list of impossibilities spread out on the table, 

The same topics would arise, 

would I still want to die?

Is she only greener for those who have never seen her?

 

But until the day, which will never be, I cannot the answer, 

Will I ever be free in this world? I doubt it. 

So I take deep breathes and smile about it. 

A joke to make the normals smile. 

Oh, hush now, the printer didn't jam with you. 

Sure, it printed you a little greyer, when the ink should have really been replaced. 

But as you add a lick of paint, to hide this grey away. 

Your page still lies straight, you can still hide. And though there's something to be said for hiding away, 

The point is you can do it, you never have to say. 

 

My paper crumbled, when I was drawn wrong, I was meant to be recycled. 

A disease, I should have been deleted, demolished, religion would have you believe. 

So why pull out this crumpled paper, nothing more than wasted leaves?

 

Tell me a least that it makes you feel better, admit the truth, please normals of the world. 

Tell me my truth is the truth. 

At least then I know where I sit. 

Comments1

  • Tia Davis/テイア

    I just loved this so much it is an amazing write. Thank you for writing such a piece.

    • DD.

      Thank you so much for your comment it made my day xxx



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