Untitled
I.
I used to write poetry,
with the emotions
I couldn’t express
pouring into notebooks
of canvasses
of affect.
But my paint was too
vibrant
Bountiful trigger warnings.
(If they ignored my superpower
long enough,
would it go away?)
The intensity of my feelings,
reflected in metre,
was blinding
My words
considered
taboo.
I don’t write any more.
II.
I used to say
I’m apolitical:
I don’t care enough
to vote.
Since then
I have watched power tumble across
to the right-wing
Continents from the election.
My country
Freedom crumbling:
to love,
to eat,
to access,
to believe,
to spend
And stuck
in the mire
where millions are more unsafe
than I am
Rising bile, I have craved
0.000004 of a chance
to change the outcome.
I’d give anything to vote.
III.
I used to count down
till my 18th birthday
so I could donate
blood.
The thought
of my blood
disregarding colour or gender or religion or ability
(So like the world I hoped I’d wake to)
was a forbidden thrill.
I was pillaged
Forced to confront
the sight of my blood
far too often
Fear
(though I couldn’t name it then)
created an alien home.
Sharps
still
make my heart race.
Giving blood that has known
such pain
seems infeasible
I might never share my blood.
IV.
I used to detest labels.
Don’t drown me
in your habit
of putting stickers
everywhere:
borderline, feminist, rebel, survivor.
Don’t
drag me into your
desire
to judge and
divide and weaken
As if
objects can’t speak for themselves
People can’t listen
when they’re spoken to?
Don’t
cite economy as your reason
for needing labels,
for needing walls.
I’d scream:
my badges are mine
to choose,
to share,
to ignore.
But today,
when demarcation is no longer
a convenience
but for cohort
I’ll choose a side.
